


The Time Is Now

by babybrackish



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, an assortment of plot device ocs, bamf asia, danny’s anxiety shooting through the roof, i believe that’s the right tag, i relentlessly bully jorel, otherworldly shenanigans: boss mode, tags will be updated and added as it progresses, the girls are here for Special Reasons, the guys all have powers but what, touch starved charlie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22264111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrackish/pseuds/babybrackish
Summary: Five men who have never known each other are brought together by what seems to be the hand of fate.Something is very wrong, and unfortunately for them, they are in the center of it.(on hiatus)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 41





	1. The Beginning

The sky is gray and dim, dark clouds rolling over as the rain soaks the earth through with cold water, and Jordon has been digging for hours. 

His arms are burning and his vision has long since blurred, but there’s still no sign of what he’s looking for. He rocks back on his feet, planting the shovel in the ground as he leans on it, breathing hard.

“You’re not going to find it, Jordon,” says a soft voice from beside him.

He doesn’t flinch. He’s too used to it. “Hi, Randi.” He turns to meet her eyes, struggling not to let his exhaustion show, though he knows it doesn’t matter.

Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, her sweater hanging off her frame as she peers at him through her big square glasses. She isn’t damp at all. The rain doesn’t even touch her.

“Hi, Jordon,” she says. “You’re not going to find it.”

He stares at the gaping hole he’s left in the dirt. “I will,” he says. “I have to.”

“You won’t. You don’t.” She peers through the pouring rain at the headlights passing down the nearby street, their dull glow barely hidden by the thick of trees. “It’s late, Jordon. Stop digging.”

He snorts, wiping rain from his eyes. “Why are you here, Randi?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer.

And of course it’s the same answer as always. “You need a friend right now. That’s why you made me.”

He raises a brow. “Well, you’re kickass, but you don’t exist.”

She gives him a twinkling smile, unfazed. “I’m not  _ real _ , but I do exist.”

“In my head,” he says with a sigh. It isn’t a question. He looks back down into the hole. “Tomorrow will be better,” he mutters. 

“You won’t find it tomorrow either.”

“It exists,” he says, face twisting. “It has to. It’s real.”

“Careful, Jordon,” she says, though her face remains cheerful. “You don’t want to make a tulpa.”

“Right.” He drops the shovel and wipes his palms on his shorts. His body is starting to ache.

“You need sleep. Let’s go home. I’ll walk with you, if you want.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. See you later, Randi.”

She says nothing, but he doesn’t look for a response anyway. He knows she’s already returned to whatever corner of his mind she occupies.

With a sigh and a final look towards the hole, he abandons the shovel in the dirt and heads through the trees towards the street, sticking his hands into his pockets. How damned crazy does he have to be to listen to his fucking imaginary friend? To even still _have_ one?

He looks at the cars passing, raindrops bouncing off their metal bodies. The mist forms a gentle pocket around him, letting him have his own little bubble away from the rest of the world. He sighs, thinks about the hole he dug.

He’ll try again tomorrow.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Dylan slips the beers into his bag and leaves the gas station through the side door. The employees are too occupied with the ever-growing line of customers to even notice. He watches the cashier’s eyes go round as she instead realizes that she has to scan four bags’ worth of items. Another customer bumps into him on his way out but seems more focused on maneuvering through the cramped little building. Dylan steps out into the cool evening air and takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of impending rain. With a little smile on his face, he starts down the street.

He makes his way towards the bridge near his apartment, cans of beer and spray paint rattling away in his bag. He’s about to take the turn that leads to his favorite shortcut when the store catches his eye. It’s been there for a while, he knows. He’s seen it before. But he’s never really paid attention to it.

It’s a single, small brick building, a plain white sign set above the entrance with “METAPHYSICS” printed on it in bold, curly black lettering. The shutters are drawn, but the bright, beaming yellow light inside still squeezes through them, shining through the door as it spills onto the street from all directions.

He isn’t sure why he notices it now. He’s never really cared for metaphysical stores or the items they carry inside. He should just acknowledge it and move on. It’s never mattered to him before.

But it seems so much  _ brighter  _ tonight. He can’t tear his eyes away from it. There’s an odd fizzling in his gut.

He should go. The beers will get warm if he takes too long. But he is struck by the certainty that he  _ needs  _ to go inside. He can’t say why. The beers will be fine; it’s still cool out. He needs to go inside. Something about it feels so important to him.

He crosses the street with determined steps, eyes fixed on the door. He isn’t sure why this matters so much.

It swings open easily, a little bell ringing as he steps over the threshold. The woman at the cash register chirps out a greeting but doesn’t look away from her book. It’s warmer inside than he thought it would be. It’s a cramped space, shelf upon shelf stacked close together, all packed with books and tarot cards and rows of gemstones and incense. Growing more hesitant about his decision to come inside but unwilling to walk out immediately, he steps awkwardly around the shop, looking over the inventory with no real interest. He moves around to the back of the shop, to a little nook where a teenage boy sits at a table reading.

There’s a plush chair pressed up against the wall nearby and Dylan takes a moment to admire the fat black cat stretched across it, watching him lazily with squinted yellow eyes. He turns to leave, happy to have at least gotten the joy of looking at a chunky cat out of this, when his eyes catch on something.

On the corner of a small, narrow table sits a tiny sliver of a gemstone. He steps forward and lifts it, holding it closer to his face in order to examine it. It’s slightly rough and seems more like a broken-off piece of something bigger, a conclusion further solidified in his mind when he realizes there’s no price tag or even similar pieces. The shard is a deep purple, though little hints of green flash through it when he tilts it and the light hits it differently. 

There’s a fuzzy feeling in his fingers where he holds the shard, a feeling that settles pleasantly in his veins and seems to hum in time with the rush of his blood. Holding it feels  _ right _ , like an odd sort of synchronization.

He stares at it for a moment longer before pocketing it, finally moving to head back out. 

“I don’t think you can take that,” the teenager says with a frown. Dylan blinks. He’d forgotten he was there.

Dylan looks back at the boy, giving him a lazy grin. “Nah, dawg, it’s all good. Forget about it.” He lets the lull slip into his voice, watching the frown fade from the boy’s face, his eyes glazing over as he forgets Dylan.

Dylan slips out quickly after that, striding with purpose towards his shortcut. The boy will remember him again in ten minutes - or, if Dylan’s unlucky, less - and he would like to be out of reach of any persecution when that happens. It’s raining now, beating against his face and slipping down his jacket, but all he can focus on is his hand pressed against his pocket and the calming hum of the shard he can feel even through the fabric.

He doesn’t go to the bridge after all. He returns to his apartment, throwing the beers into the fridge and putting the spray paint back on the counter. He sits and turns the shard over in his fingers, staring at it with awe while the TV drones in the background.

He puts the shard on his nightstand once he heads to bed. He continues to stare at it as he lies there, a faint uneasiness tugging at his heart when he stops to wonder why he cares for a broken piece of a gemstone so much.

He falls asleep with it there, calm but frowning, and he dreams of men he does not know.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


It isn’t hard to jimmy the lock open. It’s even easier to slip inside. Jorel was expecting more from the rich pricks, really, but apparently not even the greediest are always capable of summoning the brainpower to install a security system. He snorts. Dumbasses.

He sneaks through the kitchen, keeping his steps light and keeping his search through the cabinets and drawers as silent as possible. He eyes a set of golden cutlery tucked away in one of the cabinets, looking far too shiny and polished to be put on any normal person’s table. He stuffs it into his bag and continues on. There’s not as many interesting  things as he’d thought there would be, though he still discovers some very high end jewelry and a huge wad of cash in the master bedroom that he’s eager to make off with. The rest of it is the usual stuff - a nice laptop, an iPad, a pair of expensive sneakers, a few nice watches. He snags a bottle of Cognac for good measure on the way out.

He slips out of the house, satisfied with his findings. It should keep him fed for a while. He starts on his way back to the studio, careful to keep away from any people. He glances up at the sky, the sun beginning to set. He’s almost back, eager for nighttime so he can get to selling his catch, when there’s a meow behind him.

He stops in his tracks, blinking, and turns around.

Predictably, there is a cat staring up at him. Its coloring is bizarre, its face split into two colors, and a memory rises to the surface of the local vet telling him all about chimera cats.

It bolts before he can get a better look at it. He’s almost tempted to let it go, to just go home and sell his shit, but then his heart is racing and he is choking on his sudden desperation to go after it.

He chases after it without thinking. He  _ needs _ to follow it.

_ Come on. _

He picks up his pace, shoes pounding against the pavement, blood pumping in his ears. He slides around a corner, eyes locked onto the cat as it darts down the sidewalk.

He’s almost there, almost close to it, and then it’s disappearing into a darkened, lonely house, and he slides to a stop.

He stares at the door the cat went into, blinking at the realization that there’s no cat door. He glances around, but sees no one.

Skin flushing with nerves, he walks into the house. The door isn’t locked.

It’s dark inside, completely devoid of any furniture. His heart pounds harder. He glances around for the cat and just barely catches sight of its tail streaming around a corner. He swallows and follows it, significantly slower than before, uncertainty weighing his steps down.

Why did he come here?

He moves down a long, spotless hallway, his shoes squeaking on the hardwood and echoing in the empty space. He turns around the corner and pauses, blinking hard.

At the end of the next hall, in a room on the right side, a light is on.

Eyes widening against his own attempts to steel his nerves, he takes slow steps towards the room, palms sweaty.

He peers into the room, throat tight. He catches sight of the cat right as it leaps out a window. He takes a step inside.

On the wall, written in thin, scratchy black paint, are the words  _ KEEP GOING.  _ And then below it,  _ KEEP FOLLOWING.  _ There is chicken scratch in the shape of a heart beside the words.

Eyes impossibly wide, he steps forward and reaches out to touch the writing.

The paint is fresh.

He leaves immediately, running to the studio.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The little bell above the door chimes as Danny enters, a happy sound that rings out through the coffee shop. The barista, Alice, gives him an eager wave, her eyes brightening as she smiles at him. He waves back, a little awkwardly, and avoids her eyes. She’s nice enough to him, but his typical bashfulness isn’t helped by the fondness he can feel from her. He’s her favorite regular. 

Stopping in front of the pastry case, he glances out the window and around the shop. There’s only one other person inside, sitting in the corner hunched over a laptop, and there are very few people out on the streets. It’s a gray morning, sky thick with heavy, dark clouds, and he wonders if it’s going to rain.

“The usual, love?” Alice asks, still smiling as she looks him over. He shuffles uncomfortably. 

“Um, yes, please,” he mumbles, fidgeting with his bracelet. “With a - a lemon bar this time. Please.” He pulls the cash from his pocket and hurriedly passes it over to her.

“Comin’ right up.”

He waits patiently for it, looking out the window and biting his lip. Save for Alice bustling around and the occasional car passing by, the world feels still and silent around him. Anxiety pulls at his stomach and he tries to breathe around it. It feels  _ too  _ still. Bad memories try to crawl their way to the surface. He pushes them away.

There’s a tiny rattle.

He lifts his head, glancing around the shop as the rattling continues. He looks past where Alice is steaming milk, eyes landing on the plates stacked carefully on their shelves. They tremble just slightly, just enough to click together. He blinks, stares at Alice. She doesn’t seem to notice, humming to herself while she makes little foam patterns in his latte.

The plates rattle louder.

He stares, shifting his feet and darting another quick glance around. Nothing else is shaking. He doesn’t feel unsteady. It can’t be an earthquake, he thinks. He watches the plates rattle away, like the shelves themselves are being shaken.

There’s a scrape behind him. He turns to look, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

The other customer is looking directly at him. He can’t distinguish their features, can’t even really see their eyes. But their hands are still on the laptop and they are looking straight at him. The plates are still rattling.

_ Something is very wrong _ , he thinks, and then he feels a little dizzy.

Maybe he should leave. The customer won’t look away. The plates are still rattling. He should leave.

“You said a lemon bar?” Alice pipes from the counter, opening the pastry case. 

“Y- yes,” he squeaks. As she moves to grab the bar, he clears his throat. “Could you actually make it to-go? Please?”

She raises a brow, but nods. The plates are still rattling.

He rocks on his feet, fighting the desire to chew on his bracelet. He wants to leave now. She comes back to the counter with his order in hand, giving him another big smile. He looks over her shoulder to where the plates are still rattling. She tilts her head and looks behind herself.

“See something?” she asks. The plates are no longer rattling. 

He swallows hard. “No, uh, just thinking.”

She gives him another fond look and passes his order across the counter to him. “Enjoy,” she says. She winks.

Face hot and throat clenching with embarrassment, he mumbles a thank you and takes his items. He hurries out the door, resolutely ignoring what Alice is feeling. The other customer isn’t looking his way anymore.

He heads down the street, determined to get away from the wrongness he senses. The wrongness that makes his insides squirm. The feeling of eyes on his back remains until the coffee shop is out of sight.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


On a bitterly rainy, gray evening, George searches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr! @illsingyouonelastsong  
> my insta is @lxrenedrive


	2. Three Little Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re the first few mistakes that Jorel’s made in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: attack by a dog, panic
> 
> i don’t think it’s too awfully graphic, but please be aware of it!!

The first thing Jordon ever created was Randi. 

He’s not sure exactly how old he was when he made her, when his mind first decided he was desperate for more than an at-school friend. But he can remember her in his backyard sometime after he first started elementary school, and he knows she was there long before he got artsy. She’d been wearing a blue and white dress with her hair in pigtails, bouncing on her feet and clapping her hands together as she watched him swing higher and higher and higher.

He did have friends at a few points. She was only there when he didn’t. And then he’d aged into a teenager and she’d aged into a fake one. Then they were adults. And all the while the number of times she appeared each week had steadily been growing bigger and bigger and bigger.

And now here she is, sitting in front of him in an almost empty McDonald’s, and she’s the only friend he’s had in years.

“Can’t believe you made me leave my shovel in the  _ woods _ ,” he whines, pressing his switched-off phone against his ear in the hopes that no one will look at him sideways. He’s just not in the mood for it today. “Now I have to get a new one.”

Randi’s lips waver with a suppressed laugh. “Jordon,” she says, “you dropped it without even noticing.”

“Still your fault.” She can’t hold her amusement back then, her shoulders shaking as her laughter bursts out. “I’m glad you’re enjoying my torment,” he says, chuckling despite himself.

“It’s fine,” she forces past her giggles. “It probably wasn’t buried anyway. That lady was talking out of her ass.”

“Right.” He looks down at his half-eaten pancakes, sitting uselessly between the two of them. He remembers pushing food across the table to one of his old middle school friends. He tried to do it with Randi before. She could never eat it. 

He looks up at Randi. She isn’t smiling anymore. 

He rubs his face. “Right,” he says again, putting his phone in his pocket and rising to his feet. He picks up his tray of mediocre McDonald’s pancakes and carries it to the trash.

“Are we gonna look somewhere else?”

“The term is  _ elsewhere _ , actually.” He turns back to her and lifts his chin as primly as he can. “Common folk,” he says with a scoff. She laughs. He catches one of the cashiers blinking at him. With a snort, he says, “Yeah, I can check the shops again.”

She accepts it as the farewell it is and disappears back into his head. He takes a deep breath. Looks at the cashier. Leaves.

Probably better not to be crazy in public.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Dylan is startled awake by the sound of the wind.

It batters against his window, rattling it so hard it sounds like it’s going to come off the hinges. In his half-asleep state and lying in his darkened room, he’s certain that the experimental ritual he and his friend performed when he was 11 is coming back to haunt him.

_ Oh, shit,  _ he thinks, and then the wind stops.

He dozes in and out for a while longer before he finally sits up. His head  _ throbs _ . He clutches his head, groaning. Is it possible to be hungover without being hungover? Is that a thing?

_ Shit _ , his head hurts.

He swings his legs out of bed, moving to stand up and promptly falling back, yelping at a sharp pain in his foot. He rushes to grip his foot, seeking out the source with bleary eyes.

The shard has fallen on the floor, likely while he was asleep. He whines and rubs at his foot, leaning over to snatch the shard off the floor.

“How’d you get there, dumbass?” he mutters. The shard doesn’t respond.

He tosses it onto the nightstand while he dresses, frowning at the next gust of wind he hears. “Shut up, bro,” he groans. It’s too early for this.

He tucks the shard into his pocket without a second thought, stumbling into his apartment’s tiny kitchen. He bobs his head to a beat only he can hear, throwing open his fridge and whistling. He snags a carton of eggs and immediately ceases his tune. “Aw, really, dude?” The single remaining egg is broken. “Come  _ on _ .”

He tosses it in the trash. The fridge is empty otherwise, aside from a half-full jug of orange juice. He knows without looking that he’s already consumed the last of what was in his pantry. (Specifically, while high off his ass and watching  _ Top Gun _ ). That’s the last time he decides not to go to the gas station when he’s got the munchies. He leans his head against the fridge with a groan. He’ll grab a cheap breakfast, then.

He throws his jacket on and is out the door in seconds, sliding his hand into his pocket to press his fingers against the shard, his blood beginning to hum with it. It’s soothing, peaceful. Pleasant.

He hums to himself as he bounds down the stairs, a little smile tugging at his lips.

  
  


******

  
  
  


They’re the first few mistakes that Jorel’s made in a while, and of course they’re centered in the same house as a giant, snarling dog.

His first mistake - the inciting one - might be the fact that he decided to burgle another house after not even a full 24 hours. Maybe it made him sloppy. He’d only sold his findings last night, fairly quickly after he’d acquired them. The money should be plenty enough to grab food whenever he needs, at least for a good few months. He even has enough to buy a new blanket and a pillow to use in the abandoned recording studio he’s taken temporary residence in. Some of it will even help him save up in the hopes of buying a safe home one day. He doesn’t actually  _ need _ to go back out stealing just yet.

But he can’t stop thinking about the abandoned house and the fresh paint on its walls. The cat that led him there and the little chicken-scratch heart. He can’t stop thinking about it. He went looking for the house again when he woke up, just to reassure himself that it wasn’t some fever dream. But the last time he’d been there he’d been chasing after a cat with no thought or awareness of his surroundings, so he shouldn’t have expected to find it again.

He can’t stop thinking about that damn house. He can’t stop thinking about it, and none of the things he usually does are distracting him, and he doesn’t know any of the other homeless in this area, so in the end it isn’t surprising when the thought comes to him: the cat.

The cat had led him to the house. The cat had led him to the room with the paint. The cat had come after the burglary. 

It’s an incredible leap of logic. He knows how unlikely it is that the cat came  _ because  _ of the burglary, that if he had just stood there for a while it probably would’ve come anyway.  _ But _ , he argues back at himself,  _ if a cat leads you to some spooky paranormal house of its own volition then maybe it  _ is  _ possible to… summon it. _

It makes no sense. It really doesn’t. He really shouldn’t consider it.

But he wants to do  _ something _ . He wants to do something that isn’t surviving, or fighting, or sleeping, or fucking, or applying for jobs that he knows will never hire him.

A memory comes to him then, of being 14 and on the streets for the first time, with a miserable girl grabbing his hand and telling him, very earnestly, to  _ keep going _ .

He thinks of the words painted in the abandoned house.

It’s an itch he can’t scratch, buried somewhere between his skin and his mind.

And so he makes what he believes is quite possibly one of the worst decisions he’s ever made. He just wants to see the house.

It’s the standard routine: he sets aside his tools and pepper spray, then makes sure his things are secure in his pack before stuffing it into a black trash bag and marching into the nearby trees. He stows it in the shallow hole he dug beneath a cluster of thick bushes, sweeping more leaves underneath the bushes in the hopes of camouflaging his stash better. Then, he goes to choose a house.

He’s ready to get to it, his skin crawling with impatience, and maybe going along with his twitchiness is his second mistake.

He chooses a house that he’s stolen from before. It’s the first time since he was 17 that he’s ever gone back to one place. His third mistake. 

He visited the house not even a month ago. He’s aware of who the people here are; a couple who had written an article together talking down to poor people about hard work and laziness. There’s no sign of anyone there; just a still, silent house sitting primly on its piece of land. There’s a sign in the yard that wasn’t there before, declaring that it’s now secured.

With a sick sort of joy growing in him at the realization that they took his burglary as the sign they needed to finally install a security system, he cuts the power. It isn’t hard; the electric panel is on the outside of the house. He’d almost feel bad for their poor luck if they weren’t such monumental pricks.

_ God _ , he hates rich people. 

From there it’s a simple matter of picking the lock on the back door. He hesitates as he moves to turn the knob, a sliver of doubt worming its way in. The feeling that tightens in his gut doesn’t seem positive.

He needs to see the cat again. He needs to find the house.

He ignores the feeling and slips inside. His fourth mistake.

He’s three steps past the doorway, stomach squirming with discomfort, when there’s a vicious, resounding bark. 

He freezes, breath catching in his throat.

Prowling towards him is a very large, very angry dog. 

Oh.

That wasn’t here last time.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon’s arrival at the shop is hailed by the store cat, Samson, lifting his head to look at him. He’s an incredibly fat, incredibly lazy black cat, and is currently lounging on his favorite chair. Jordon waves hello to him before moving to explore the shop, keeping an eye out for any items out of the ordinary.

There’s nothing much here besides what he’s used to - a fact that he refuses to admit any disappointment about - but his attention is caught only a few minutes in by the employee standing in the nook near the back of the shop. There’s a teenage boy standing behind her, his arms crossed as she looks between the table in front of her and the paper in her hands.

Jordon makes a beeline for them, heart thrumming with curiosity. 

“What’s up?” is his greeting, his voice cheerful. He chuckles at the muddled look on her face. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Wha - oh.” She blinks a few times, hard. “Ah, g’morning, sir. This boy says some man took a, uh… stone?” She throws a glance at the boy for confirmation. The boy gives no clear response. “A stone,” she continues, a little uncertainly. “Apparently some guy just… grabbed a stone. But I can’t find anything missing that wasn’t checked off the inventory.”

“Really,” he says, tone as light as always, though the curiosity is growing into something far more intent, almost a little painful. “If it’s not on the inventory, could it be something new?” 

She blinks. “Erm. Maybe. But we haven’t documented any new things and we still have a different inventory for everything that’s in the back. Someone might’a just left it here.”

He turns to the boy. “What kind of stone?”

The boy shrugs. “Don’t know. It was small, I couldn’t tell.”

“It might’a just been left here,” the employee repeats, rubbing her face. “It’s nowhere on the inventory.” 

The boy scratches the back of his neck. “I might be remembering wrong, then,” he mutters. “The memory  _ is _ kind of fuzzy. Sorry.”

She just bobs her head and walks away, looking barely-awake. Jordon turns back to the boy, moving to intercept him before he can leave the shop. The boy blinks.

“What did this dude look like?” Jordon asks.

He shrugs again. “Tall… kinda long, dark hair. I don’t really remember.”

“And when did this happen?”

“Last night.”

Jordon blinks. “Last night… and you waited until today to report it?” The not-curiosity is tightening in his gut, growing bigger.

The boy shuffles uncomfortably. “Didn’t remember till I had left. Shop was closed by then.”

_ Didn’t remember?  _ Jordon is almost vibrating now, not-curiosity morphing into excitement. That’s exactly the kind of odd occurrence he’s been looking for. “You mean you saw someone  _ steal _ and just... forgot about it?” He can’t help the eager lilt to his voice. The boy seems unsettled by it.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” he says, shifting his weight. “Um, look, man, it’s been cool talking, but I should go.”

Jordon barely notices the boy walk away, buzzing over the excitement of this new development.

It couldn’t be… it  _ couldn’t _ . How likely would it be for this to be it? But maybe it’s still something.

Randi stirs, nudging at a corner of his mind. He catches a small piece of her own curiosity before her presence winks out once more, dissolving back into what he presumes is his subconscious, and he takes it as encouragement. 

She’s just as curious as he is.

With absolutely no idea where to go or even what to do about this, Jordon trots out of the shop in search of a tall man with “kinda long, dark hair.” 

He’ll figure it out as he goes.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Dylan’s mission to eat breakfast is stalled once again, this time by a peculiar shadow on the sidewalk. He’s the only person on the street right now, the gray clouds from yesterday still hanging thick across the sky. The metaphysical store he went to last night is only two streets away. 

The shadow shouldn’t be as stark as it is, considering the lack of sunlight, but it’s still prominent on the ground.

It’s warped and contorted, a long thick line with sharper and thinner forms jutting out of either side of it. Before he can make sense of what the hell it's even supposed to be, it’s gone. Blinking hard, he looks around, scanning the pavement beneath him and the buildings beside him. Almost all the shadows that should be there have been swallowed by the cover of the clouds, leaving only the faintest hints of shadow in a few spots. There’s no sign of the one that was just there.

Blinking hard, he pushes aside the question of what the shadow belonged to and how it could have appeared naturally in the lightless day, and instead focuses on the bigger question: is this some sort of hunger-induced psychosis? Or is he high?

Did he smoke something and go back to sleep? Did he accidentally inhale leftover smoke that he didn’t know he was there? Did one of the spray paints break open and he inhaled it without realizing? He doesn’t huff paint. That’s not something he wants to fuck with. Oh, shit, what if he did? What if he started sleepwalking during the night and unwittingly huffed spray paint? Did he unknowingly open the gateway to his own demise? Is it even possible to bring doom like that upon yourself when you’re asleep?

Dylan stands there for so long, caught in his own mini-crisis, that he only notices the other person across the street once they’ve already noticed him. 

He sees them from the corner of his eye, standing still. He blinks and turns to look.

Across the street is a man who is giving him a very suspicious, very searching look. It’s a little uncomfortable. 

There’s an odd tingling against his thigh where the shard is tucked away in his pocket, and it’s just adding to the discomfort of the situation. The man is looking even more suspicious of him, squinting at him from beneath the brim of a baseball cap. Awkwardly, Dylan moves to wave.

A figure flies down the sidewalk and barrels the other man over.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel can’t even move an inch before the dog is on him and his back is slamming against a wall. 

He shouts as the dog’s teeth break the skin of his arm, lashes out with his other hand. The dog digs its teeth in deeper.

Jorel cries out. His arm spasms, the sharp, tearing pain lancing up into his shoulder. His vision tunnels. He scrabbles at the floor, struggles to get away. His blood pounds in his ears, his head spinning. The dog is snarling. 

It’s hard to breathe, his throat tightening with every puff of air. He’s choking.

The dog is snarling, teeth embedded in his skin, and there’s the violent thump of his own blood pressing out from inside, the white ends of his hoodie turning pink, a flash of the dog’s bloodied teeth, the sound of scraping, the snarling, his vision spinning, and he needs to get away he needs to he needs to he

“ _ Stop! _ ” he shouts, voice strangled.

The dog flinches back violently, its teeth disappearing from his arm as quickly as they appeared. Jorel drags himself away, clutching his bloody arm against his chest as he staggers to his feet. 

He bolts the second he’s up, barely able to keep his balance. He stumbles through the back door, shoes pounding against the pavement as he races away. The world flies past him, breath squeezing its way out of his lungs. 

He darts around every twist and turn that he notices, unthinking, only able to worry about the possibility that the dog is chasing him. He slides around a corner.

There’s a man only a few feet away from him. Jorel notices him too late.

He slams into the man, knocking him to the ground. Jorel’s steps lag as he whirls around to whisper a frantic apology to the man staring up at him. He spins back around, catching the eye of another man across the road gaping at him. He pushes on, trailing blood behind him.

He almost sobs with relief when he reaches the studio, staggering into the woods and dropping to his knees in front of the bushes. He reaches beneath with his uninjured hand, scrabbling for his trash bag and biting his lip as he holds his wounded arm up high, praying that no dirt gets into it. 

He just needs the first aid kit. He just needs to clean it and wrap it and it’ll be just fine. That’s all. He’ll be fine. 

He hauls the trash bag back into the studio, pulling out his kits with one hand and struggling to treat his wound. 

He pauses in his efforts, struck suddenly by the memory of the man he’d knocked over, dazed and blinking up at him. He’d had a round face and looked a little unkempt, and Jorel can’t remember if he’d looked hurt or not.

The itch returns, a desperate twinge beneath his skin.

He bites his lip and returns to treating his arm.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Right. So if Dylan wasn’t expecting some weird shadow hallucination or a random stranger stopping to stare at him like he’d just robbed an old lady, he  _ certainly  _ wasn’t expecting said random stranger to get knocked flat on his ass by someone who is  _ very visibly _ bleeding all over the place.

Dylan goggles at the retreating stranger, blood speckling the ground behind him as he disappears around the corner. Dylan only realizes that his mouth is hanging open when he chokes on his own saliva. It’s a little embarrassing.

The man across the street seems just as stunned as Dylan, sitting dazed on the sidewalk. His baseball cap has fallen off, knocked onto the street and blown further across by the breeze.

The man isn’t looking at Dylan now. He’s staring at the traces of blood left by the other guy, with a very disoriented expression.

Dylan looks down at the hat in the road. Looks at the man. Looks at the hat.

He just wants his fucking breakfast, man.

With a somewhat distressed noise, Dylan checks to make sure it’s clear before stepping into the road, snatching the hat off the pavement and dashing forward onto the sidewalk.

The other man doesn’t seem to notice him. He just looks confused. Dylan can sympathize.

He looks at the hat again. It’s black, with “CS” sloppily painted in white across the front. He holds it out to the stranger.

“You dropped this,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i enjoy writing himbo!dylan. it’s very fun.
> 
> find me on tumblr! @illsingyouonelastsong  
> my insta is @lxrenedrive


	3. In Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guy doesn’t seem put off by the question. “I’m Dylan.”
> 
> “Jordon,” he says, trying to steel his impatience. Please let this be the right guy. “Sorry to be a damsel in distress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: the misspelling of Jordon’s name is intentional. It’s not permanent.
> 
> Also, these first few chapters are a little bit non-linear, so for reference: the events of the first chapter happened the day before this and the second one take place. The events of the second chapter take place on the same day as this chapter. 
> 
> However, Danny’s first section here takes place after the events of the first chapter but before the events of the second one. His second section takes place the same day as the rest of the chapter, but basically: his first section happened ~last night~. The next chapters from here on out should be much more linear.

Danny knows something is wrong, and his anxiety isn’t eased by the woman pacing along his street at three in the morning, a flashlight in her hand. 

The real question _should_ be how Danny’s even awake to notice, but his fear-stricken insomnia is an old friend at this point. He’s sitting on his bed, Louie tucked against his side and snoring as Danny flips through a book. The only light on in the house is his bedside lamp, just bright enough for him to read by, so it’s far too easy for him to notice a bobbing point of light through his shutters.

He watches it for a moment, but it passes quickly enough, disappearing into the night. He shrugs it off and returns to his book. The light returns only a few minutes later. He watches it pass again. Someone’s walking home and got lost, he reasons. It’s happened to him before. He turns back to his book. He gets two paragraphs down.

The light bobs past again.

Danny frowns, anxiety creeping its way through his chest and into his throat. Louie stirs against his side, but doesn’t wake. Minutes pass, silent and still.

The light bobs past.

He carefully tucks his bookmark between the pages and sets the book to the side, maneuvering himself to his feet. Louie makes a disgruntled noise.

He parts the shutters with two fingers, peering outside. 

The night is still and quiet, the stars swallowed by the lingering blanket of clouds. He sees no one and nothing.

He waits for a few long moments, watching. He taps his free hand against his thigh, biting his lip. The person’s probably found their way by now. Or he’s just imagining things. What’s he watching for, anyway? He’s almost about to give up and get back into bed when there’s a shine in the corner of his eye.

He stills, his breath slowing. He watches as a figure moves down the sidewalk, one point of light beaming from a bulky flashlight. They’re walking fairly slowly, but there’s still a little bounce to their step. After a moment, he realizes it’s a woman. 

There’s a hood drawn over her head, the majority of her face cast in stark shadow. Dark, swaying fabric ripples around her body, and Danny can’t tell if she’s wearing a dress or a cloak. She’s looking straight ahead, her gait steady and determined. Her movements are leisurely but certain. They aren’t the movements of someone who’s lost.

He watches her pass, the light growing smaller and smaller until it and the woman are both veiled by darkness once more. He returns to his bed, skin itching with discomfort. Louie snorts beside him, grunting when Danny rubs his belly. Danny picks his book back up. 

It’s only a few minutes later that the light comes back. Danny gets up, moves to the window to look out again. It might be a different person, maybe. He’s sure it’s all just one big coincidence and it’s not the same woman circling his cul-de-sac. That would make no sense. It’s silly to think someone’s just going to be going in circles around your street. What a dumb thought.

He parts the shutters and peers outside.

It’s the same woman. 

She’s walking exactly the way she did before, her gaze fixed ahead and the flashlight firm in her hand. Danny’s throat tightens as he watches her, his heart fluttering against his rib cage. His stomach churns. 

This is weird. This is weirder than weird. He doesn’t like this. He looks at the clock. It’s 3:37am. How long has she been doing this?

He looks back outside. His skin goes cold.

The woman is standing still, looking straight at him.

He watches with wide eyes as the woman reaches up to brush hair out of her face. 

She waves.

He snaps the shutters closed, launching himself into his bed and scrambling to switch off his lamp. Louie jolts awake with an alarmed growl. 

Danny throws his book to the floor, yanking his blanket over himself as he struggles for breath, heart racing. Louie chuffs. He seems completely unbothered by this.

Danny lies there for a while, stomach tight with anxiety, pressing a begrudging Louie against his chest. Something is wrong. Something is so very wrong.

He tries to focus on the sound of Louie’s snoring, the softness of the blanket against his skin, the whirring of his air vents, anything to distract himself from the _wrongness_. He’s almost there, almost focused enough to untangle the knots of fear in his stomach, to slow his heart. He rubs Louie’s belly, takes a deep breath. He’ll calm down. Nothing’s wrong. It’s just late. Nothing’s wrong. He’s okay.

His mail slot clinks.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“You dropped this.”

Jordon blinks up at the other man (tall, with kinda long, dark hair) and then at his hat. He takes it from the man and pushes himself to his feet, looking again at the blood drops scattered across the pavement. There might be some on his own sweater, too.

It’s not even 8am yet.

 _Odd occurrences, indeed_ , Randi remarks from somewhere inside his head. She disappears again before he can respond.

He coughs and stares at the other guy. The other guy stares back.

“Well,” Jordon says, “I didn’t realize I’d be falling for anyone today.”

The guy stares blankly at him for a moment before his eyes brighten. He lets out a goofy laugh, slapping Jordon on the shoulder. An amused ping from Randi bounces off the inside of his skull.

“That was good,” the man says, cackling. 

“Of course it was; I’m a master of wit.” He puts his hat on and looks back at the sidewalk. “The fuck’s up with all the blood, though?”

The man squints down at the pavement, absently shifting one leg. “No clue. Dude looked like he was running for his life.”

Jordon shrugs and turns to view the man from the corner of his eye. Tall, with kinda long, dark hair. A strange, fuzzy energy to him, too, but that’s not enough evidence on its own. He wishes the boy had given him a real description. Hopefully he wasn’t staring at this dude for nothing. “Who are you, anyway?”

The guy doesn’t seem put off by the question. “I’m Dylan.”

“Jordon,” he says, trying to steel his impatience. Please let this be the right guy. “Sorry to be a damsel in distress.”

“It’s all good, homie.” Dylan cracks his knuckles. “But I need to go and-”

“Hold on!” Dylan blinks at him. Jordon tries to reign himself in. He’s buzzing with excitement again. “Here’s a weird question: there’s a metaphysical store a few streets down.” Dylan nods. He seems a little out of it, his eyes going distant as he shifts his weight. “A kid said he saw someone take a stone from the shop. You may or may not fit the description.” Jordon decides not to mention that it was barely a description. 

Dylan blinks a few times, like he didn’t hear Jordon, before the recognition dawns on his face. “Ohhhh.” He bobs his head, adjusts his stance. “Yeah, I took that. Ain’t really a _stone,_ though, just a little piece of… something.”

Jordon blinks, a little surprised by his nonchalance. Dylan’s practically bouncing on his feet by now, and Jordon is starting to think that the dude needs to piss. “So you-”

“Hang on, dude,” Dylan says, waving one hand and patting his pocket with the other. “Something feels real funny.” He withdraws something from his pocket, clenching it in his fist and frowning.

Randi stirs in Jordon’s head. _What is that?_

Jordon watches as Dylan opens his fist.

Jordon inhales sharply, the aura of the little shard hitting him. He staggers, world spinning around him for a brief moment. Dylan stares at him with glassy eyes.

“What kind of magic is that?” Randi whispers. Jordon jolts. He hadn’t realized that she was out.

Dylan’s looking back at the shard. He doesn’t hear her, of course. Jordon takes a deep breath, waiting for his head to clear. 

Even when his head has cleared, his guts churn and his veins quiver, pulling in towards the little stone like they’re going to come out of his body. He looks at Randi. Her lips are drawn tight, her eyes wide with surprise.

He turns back to Dylan, reaching for the stone. Dylan jerks his hand away, keeping it out of his reach.

Jordon stares at him. Dylan stares back.

“Jordon,” Randi says from beside him, “I’m not sure that that’s it.”

He resists the urge to turn and ask her _What the fuck is it supposed to be, then?_ because he just met this dude and it’s way too early to be crazy in front of him. Randi understands anyway.

“I don’t think it’s the right magic,” she says. “It doesn’t feel like how it should.”

Jordon grits his teeth and lowers his hand. He takes a deep breath. Looks at the blood on the sidewalk. Looks back at Dylan. “Okay, dude,” he says, “what the _fuck_ is that thing?”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The coffee shop had been empty when George arrived. The only person left inside was the barista, who flushed pink when she saw him, stuttering out a flustered greeting. He’d stood there for a long moment to observe the shop, taking in the sight of the machines in the back, the rows of plates, the case packed full of cheesecakes and muffins and other things that he would barely be able to taste. The chocolate cake he used to be so fond of was sitting beside the lemon bars.

He looked up at the plates. Around at the empty tables.

He’d waited for clarity. It never came.

He was missing something.

He didn’t buy anything in the end, but he tipped the barista anyway.

That was yesterday.

Today, George stands at the end of the street, watching police cars roll up to a house with a woman gesticulating wildly in front of it, a burly dog prowling around near her. He can hear some of what she’s saying, her shriek echoing in the stillness of the day.

“ _Again! You - I thought it was secured! Again!”_

He waits for the moment of realization, the moment that the trigger gives way beneath the finger, the little _snap_ that comes when the wing breaks. He waits for the _click._

It doesn’t come.

He frowns. He’s missing something.

He watches for a moment longer as the woman continues her screaming rant, and then he leaves, his footsteps marking the pavement beneath.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Dylan’s thigh starts to burn when the dude - Jordan - stops him from leaving. It had been fine before. His skin had been prickling, sure, but it didn’t feel like it does now; like he’d stuck a piece of dry ice against his thigh and kept it there. By the time the feeling is notable to him, it’s progressed quickly from tingling goosebumps to _pain._

He doesn’t panic. He’s always been good at staying calm, pushing through discomfort. He waves his hand, cutting Jordan off and reaching to feel his thigh. Jesus _Christ,_ that burns. He chokes a bit as he feels the outline of the shard through his pocket.

He fishes it out, his fist shaking. The burn eases. He opens his fist, staring down at the shard as the burning of his thigh settles back into itchy, tingly skin. There’s a sharp jab in his palm. He flinches, looks up at Jordan. The other man seems a little unsteady on his feet. Dylan’s gaze falls back to the shard.

Jordan’s fingers brush against his hand. Dylan jerks away, holding the stone protectively against his chest, alarms blaring in his head.

 _Don’t you dare,_ he almost snarls. He doesn’t know why.

He stares at Jordan. Jordan stares back.

Jordan’s jaw is set, his eyes darting to the side like he’s looking for something else. There’s a tense, silent moment before Jordan sighs and drops his hand, his body barely relaxing.

“Okay, dude,” Jordan says, “what the _fuck_ is that thing?” 

Dylan’s silent for a moment, looking back down at the shard. The humming, rushing blood in his veins is far more noticeable now, banging beneath his skin. He’s not sure if it feels pleasant or not. He tilts the shard, catching the light. There’s a flash of orange across its surface.

He pauses.

Since when was it orange?

He lifts it to his face, squinting. It’s still deep purple. The hints of green he noticed before are nowhere to be found. The purple is shot through with streaks of orange. 

He lowers the shard, wavering on his feet. He’s a little lightheaded.

“Uh… you good, dude?”

He blinks hard. Jordan is staring at him in a very concerned way.

“I’m good,” Dylan says. “It’s… um.” He looks at the shard. “Look, I don’t know what this is, man.”

“And it didn’t - ” Jordan cuts himself off, voice straining a bit. His gaze is fixed back on the shard. “It didn’t… break off of anything?”

“I really don’t know, dude.” Why does this guy think he’d know? “I found it like this.”

Jordan frowns, giving Dylan a hard, searching look. His eyes slide off of Dylan, to the side, his frown deepening. Dylan glances over to see what he’s looking at. There’s nothing.

Dylan has absolutely no idea what’s happening. Jordan looks back at him, shoulders slumping. “Right,” he says, voice glum. He’s staring at the shard again.

They both go silent for another long, tense moment.

“In that shop,” Jordan starts, “did you see anything else… weird?”

 _I’m seeing something weird right now,_ he wants to say. He doesn’t say it. “Like what?”

Jordan tears his eyes away from the shard. “Like - like a - ” He sighs and shakes his head. “Nevermind, dude. Sorry for staring at you.”

Interest piqued, Dylan takes a step forward, stuffing the shard back into his pocket. “Hold up. What are you looking for?”

Jordan raises a brow. “Moving a little fast, huh? Seems more like second date material.”

Dylan stifles a laugh, shoulders shaking. No. Focus. “Ah, c’mon, dude, I’ve got some weird ass fucking piece of a rock here and you’re worried I’m gonna judge you?” He gestures to the sidewalk. “Some dude came bleeding all over you and you think this is the weirdest part?”

Jordan snorts out a laugh. “Maybe he was on his period,” he mutters, a poor attempt at deflection. Dylan cackles anyway, and Jordan laughs with him. 

“Okay,” Dylan coughs out through his laughter. “Cheap shot. Don’t change the subject.” Jordan’s grin turns strained. “Why don’t we - ” He pauses, casting his gaze around. At the sight of a cheap little burger joint not far across the street, Dylan’s stomach growls. _Fuck,_ he’s starving. “Let’s grab a bite.”

Jordan blinks. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Jordan’s gaze slides off to the side once more, his face pensive. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters. He looks back at Dylan. “Righteous.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


As it turns out, Dylan is a fantastic person to grab a bite with. He chatters the whole way through their walk, a bounce in his step. Jordon can’t quite keep track of everything he’s saying; at first he’s talking about the bleeding man, then he’s talking about a “funky batch of weed” he bought, and then it’s… something about spray paint? Jordon’s a little impressed by his ability to swing through so many topics in such a short amount of time.

Regardless, he’s a very entertaining person.

Jordon doesn’t get anything to eat at the burger place, but Dylan buys himself three burgers and an apple juice. He throws in a soda for Jordon. Jordon’s awe just grows.

“It’s not even 8,” Randi says. She sounds almost as disoriented as he feels. “Is this - is this his breakfast?” 

“So,” Dylan says once they’ve sat down, a burger in one hand and his apple juice in the other, “you looking for something?”

Jordon blinks. When did he say that? Randi presses her shoulder against his, whispers, “The shard, Jordon.”

Jordon snaps abruptly back to the present. Right. Mood souring, he says, “It was just a misunderstanding, dude.”

“No, hol’ up,” Dylan mumbles around his mouthful. He waves a hand as he swallows. “I’m not gonna judge you, dude.”

Randi slips away from Jordon, moving behind Dylan. She leans over Dylan’s shoulder, Jordon watching intently. She points at Dylan. Nods.

Dylan blinks at him. “Is there something on my face?”

“What? Oh.” Jordon shakes his head, looks away from Randi. “Just thinking.” He and Dylan stare at each other for a long moment. He glances at Randi. She nods again, eyes bright. “I’m looking for… a stone,” he says, uncertain, reaching for his drink. Don’t give too much away.

Dylan just nods, like it makes perfect sense. “Well.” He takes a large gulp of his juice. “I can help you look.”

Jordon stills. Randi _beams._ “You.. really?”

Dylan shrugs. “Yeah, why not? You’re cool.”

Jordon shifts in his seat, looking Dylan over. He _seems_ sincere. But real people are so good at faking, aren’t they? “...I’m starting to think you’re just trying to get in my pants.”

Randi and Dylan laugh in unison. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” Dylan chortles.

“Nah, I say that shit to everyone. Don’t take it personally.” He pauses for effect. “Or _do_ take it personally.” Dylan laughs harder.

“Okay,” Dylan says once his laughter has died down. “Okay, seriously. I want to help.”

Jordon furrows his brow. “Why?”

“No clue, dude. It just…” Dylan pauses, frowning as he stares at the table. “It just feels like I should.”

They sit there for another long moment.

Jordon should say no. He really shouldn’t risk it. He should say no.

He doesn’t want to say no.

He glances at Randi. She gives him a thumbs-up, an encouraging little smile on her face, and mouths the word _friend._

He sighs. “Give me your phone.”

Dylan blinks. “Huh?”

“So I can put my contact info in.” 

“Oh!” Dylan fishes his phone from his pocket, pulling up the contacts and passing it to Jordon. 

Jordon quickly puts his name down, making sure to throw in an eggplant emoji for good measure. He passes it back.

Dylan looks from the phone to Jordon, then back again. “It’s Jordon with an O?”

“Sure is.”

“Damn,” Dylan says. “Good to know.”

Jordon stands, picking up his soda and throwing another glance at Randi. She’s grinning. “Right,” he says. Dylan squints, looking to the side. He doesn’t see Randi. Jordon rushes to speak before he can ask any questions. “I’ll see you around?”

Dylan grins. “‘Course you will, homie. You should get that blood off your sweater.”

Jordon looks down at his sweater. Right. The blood. Randi sidles up to him, giving him a gentle nudge before disappearing back into his head.

He smiles at Dylan. “See you later.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


By the time Danny wakes up, it’s almost 12:30pm. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, doesn’t know how he even could have with how bad his anxiety was last night. All he really knows right now is that he drooled so hard his blanket is still stuck to his face, and he feels like _shit._

He groans and sits up, peeling the blanket away from his face and attempting to wipe off his dried saliva. He rubs at his gummed-up eyes and slowly climbs out of bed. He needs to feed Louie. World bleary, he stumbles into the hallway, greeted by an unimpressed look from the dog himself. 

“Sorry,” Danny croaks. He clears his throat, bumbling his way to the kitchen. Putting Louie’s food together is more difficult than usual, but he manages. He collapses onto the single chair at his table, burying his face in his hands. His chest burns, the feeling pooling at the bottom of his throat. He whines. He still needs to get dressed.

He pushes himself back onto his feet, making his way towards his room once more. 

He stops. 

There’s a paper lying on the hardwood, near the foot of the front door. 

His mail slot is pushed halfway open. He wonders, vaguely, why he still hasn’t done anything to fix the way it sticks.

Heart pounding, he takes a few slow steps forward. He doesn’t want to read the paper.

He lifts the paper from the floor, carefully unfolding it. He looks at the wall as he smooths it out, his breath shaking. A cold bead of sweat rolls down his back. His throat is tight. He doesn’t want to read it.

He looks down at it.

The words are pencilled on it in easy, unhurried handwriting.

**LEAVE.**

**LEAVE.**

**LEAVE.**

He crumples it into a ball and presses it against his mouth. He sucks in painful, choking breaths, his heart slamming against his rib cage.

No. _No,_ he's not scared. It’s not real. It’s a weird game that some random woman on the street thought would be funny.

 _But what reason would she have?_ says the calm part of his mind. He sucks in another breath, screams at his heart to stop racing. It’s too much. 

_No._ No, he’s not dealing with this. He’s too fucking tired, he _just_ woke up he’s so tired of this fucking - 

He draws in a hard breath, nails digging into his palms.

No, he’s not going to have a breakdown. He’s not. He’s going to put his dog into his car and he’s going to drive. 

He tosses the paper against the wall.

Bullshit. Bullshit. Don’t panic. It’s bullshit. Don’t panic. Just drive.

He lets Louie outside before he storms into his room, scrambling to grab his clothes, fighting back bad memories all the while. He just needs to get away. His hands are numb. He needs to run. Just drive.

He lets Louie inside, searches for his leash. The woman had waved at him. Had she been scouting his house?

No, don’t think about it. Just drive.

He hauls Louie into the car.

Run. Drive. Just drive.

He backs out of his parking spot. His sleep-addled brain barely registers what he’s doing. Why he’s doing it.

He pulls away from his house. 

There is a woman at the end of his street. 

She’s gone by the time he’s there.

Drive. Drive. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George is missing something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love writing randi here because she just really wants jordon to live his best life. 
> 
> find me on tumblr! @illsingyouonelastsong  
> my insta is @lxrenedrive


	4. Come Together / Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes,” he forces out, body tensing, winding up tight, steeling himself against the Bad that he knows is coming. “This - this is him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative title: danny cannot catch a break

Danny has been driving for hours. 

He only realizes how long it’s been when he stops for gas and finally notices that the sun is setting. On one hand, it should’ve been pretty obvious to him that time was passing. He’s made several bathroom stops for himself and Louie and has bought at least two meals to share with him. He’s refilled Louie’s little travelling water bowl many times. Not to mention that he actually  _ can  _ see the sky from inside his car. He’s not blind.

_ Not blind, just stupid.  _ He bites his lip as he climbs back into his car and reaches for his phone. It’s 6:38.

_ God,  _ he can be so dumb.

He should head home now. The note was probably just a fluke. He’s sure everything’s okay. He overreacted.

He sits there for a long moment, taking in the relative stillness of the world around him. The gas station is fairly dead, and the roads aren’t nearly as clogged as he thought they would be. It’s so quiet. 

He looks at Louie sleeping in the passenger seat. His breathing is steady for the most part, little snorts escaping him with every exhale. Danny focuses on the calm that Louie feels, opening his mind to the rush of it. It gathers quickly in the corners of his brain and he wraps it around himself, his shoulders slumping as he sighs, his body relaxing. His eyes slip shut, his face growing heavy.

He closes his mind off again, taking a deep breath and forcing his eyes open, blinking away sleep. With a yawn, he reaches over and gives Louie an affectionate belly pat. He starts the car up and pulls away from the station, pointing it in the direction he came from. If he can’t find his way back, he’ll pull up directions.

For now, he drives.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


It’s 2am, and Dylan is high. The lights are all off, he’s on the couch in nothing but his underwear, and a soap opera he doesn’t even remember the name of is droning on his TV. The shard is resting on the arm of the couch, a low hum tickling his brain. He takes a long drink of his soda, grumbling when some spills down his chin. He wipes it away with a sigh. A pleasant fuzz settles over his mind. It’s a sleepless night, but he’ll be okay. He lifts the joint between his fingers.

It takes him a moment to register the ping of a text coming through, his mind slow to hook onto the noise. He pulls his eyes away from the TV, letting out a puff of smoke, and squints down at his phone. Who’s texting him this late? He reaches for it with a limp hand.

It’s from the dude, Jordon. 

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Yo what’s up new sexy friend  _

Dylan blinks. Another text comes through.

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Ok so it’s 2 in the morning but I can’t sleep and you said you’d help me look for my shit _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ So if you’re awake can you help me look for my shit _

He sends a sunglasses emoji. Dylan stares at the screen. He didn’t realize this dude would be looking for whatever he’s looking for  _ this  _ hard.

Still, he can’t sleep either, can he? He types back.

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Gang gang _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Where you going _

Jordon texts him an address. Dylan yawns and transfers it to his maps. He squints down at the result, his brain lagging for a moment as he processes the words. What it says doesn’t really help his growing feeling of surreality.

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Thats a ramrn joint dawg _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Why are you looking for a stone in a ramen joint _

It only takes a moment for Jordon to respond.

**_Jordon:_ ** _ I’m just gonna talk to one of the people there _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Maybe dig a few holes nearby. It’s easier to dig holes with two people  
  
_

**_Jordon:_ ** _Or maybe not that second one_

**_Dylan:_ ** _ One if the people there at 2am?  _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Why is a ramen place even open at 2am anywau _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ How do you focus on that and not the part about digging holes? _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Also does your phone not have autocorrect _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Idk I’m stoned bro leave me alone _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Oh shit ok _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Nice _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Are you coming or not _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Yeah I’ll come but yiu gotta wait a few minutes _

**_Jordon:_ ** _ Gucci  _

Dylan shakes his head, tossing his phone back onto the couch and pushing himself to his feet. He only wobbles a little bit. Tossing out his roach, he stumbles into his bedroom and hurriedly rummages through his clean laundry basket. He throws on whatever he grabs first, crossing his fingers in the hope that none of the dirty clothes snuck into the clean clothes and that he’s not about to wear something stained with spilled beans. 

Returning to the main room and snagging his jacket from the floor, he pulls it on and reaches for the shard. It hums gently in his fingers and he slips it into his pocket without a second thought. He grabs the remote, turns to the TV.

He hesitates then, his mind gripping onto the comfort of just sitting and watching a dumb show. A strange anxiety settles in his bones. Maybe he should just stay home and finish this stupid soap opera. It’s cold outside and he doesn’t even know this guy. He’s high and sleepy.

He stares at the TV for a moment longer, wavering in his indecision. He might be able to sleep if he stays home. Something cool might happen if he goes with Jordon. He needs sleep. He needs an actual friend. 

A woman appears on the screen then, bawling her eyes out, and she reminds him of his mother.

Oh, fuck it. 

He switches the TV off and stuffs his phone into his pocket alongside the shard, grabbing a new joint and heading for the door. With a resigned sigh, he slips out into the hall. 

He might as well see where this is going.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


There are very few things Jorel can say for certain that he knows. He knows how to read. He knows how to avoid the cops. He knows the most common spots for people to hide their valuables. He knows all the best spots for a homeless person to hole up in. He knows how to survive for a few weeks with nothing but a jar of peanut butter and a box of soda crackers. Other than that, he doesn’t really think he knows all that much.

But one thing he knows is that his arm  _ fucking hurts. _

_ Holy shit,  _ he thinks at some point, long past any reasonable time to be awake at night. He cannot sleep. The floor is too hard, knocking against his elbow and sending painful jolts through him. Even lying on his uninjured side, he can’t place his arm anywhere without tugging it and shooting pain into his shoulder. He gives up his attempts at sleep after his last thrashing fit, during which he accidentally traps his arm beneath himself and feels as if the flesh is pulling beneath the skin.

He settles for sitting against the wall, leaning his head back as he tries to breathe. His skin is hot and beaded with sweat, his stomach fluttering as his head pounds. His arm throbs, persistent and dull. Every adjustment of his hand sends another sharp stab up into his shoulder.

He groans, staring up at the ceiling, his head fuzzy like it’s been stuffed with wads of cotton. His arm aches.

He should do something. Do something instead of just sitting here, not sleeping. Yes, he’ll do something.

He sits there for a while longer, struggling to reorient himself before he places his uninjured hand on the wall and slowly drags himself onto his feet. The world tilts around him. He leans against the wall, closing his eyes as he sways. He feels like he’s going to fall out of his skin.

He takes a deep breath and forces his eyes open. He was going to do something. His arm aches. He groans again. He should get the things you swallow that make the pain better. The things. He struggles to catch the idea again. Things.  _ Pills.  _ That was it. Pain pills. Medicine. Tylenol? Is that the pain medicine?

His arm throbs.

He pushes himself off the wall and shambles over to his pack, bending down on shaky legs to pick up the shitty water bottle he’d stolen years ago. It takes a few tries to open it, but he manages. He shakes out the lone $20 bill he’d set aside after the burglary, tossing the bottle back to the floor and pocketing the bill. He tugs at one of the pockets on his pack, reaching in to pull out the little flip phone he’d managed to get, tucking it into his pocket. 

He stumbles to the door, groaning at the way the world swivels around him. He casts an uncertain look over his shoulder towards his pack, tucked into a trash bag in the corner of the studio. He would hide it in the hole outside, but he’s not even sure he can pick it up right now. He sighs and moves on, hoping desperately that it will still be there when he’s back.

It’s a long walk to the drugstore. It would be faster if the store nearest to him was open 24 hours, but it’s long since closed. Still, at least he’s going to one at all. The last few times that he’d gotten hurt, he’d decided to just grit his teeth and fester in pain until it healed. This is the first time he’s ever done anything about it.

He calls this growth.

Nobody pays much attention to him. Everyone here has seen worse than one man stumbling around, though they still steer clear of him. 

He makes it to the store in one piece, stopping once he’s inside to lean his head against the wall and catch his breath. The store is empty save for him and whichever poor cashier got suckered into taking the night shift. At least no one’s here to see him wheezing like he’s been gutpunched. 

He throws one look back towards the door. The night is still. There isn’t a single star in sight.

His arm aches. Right. He pushes off the wall. Pain meds.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon leans against the wall of the restaurant, sighing into the night air. Randi, sitting on a nearby bench and swinging her legs, kicks him in the ankle. He glares at her.

“Chill out, Randi, I’m not brooding,” he mutters. She rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, you are.” Her voice is rife with affection. “You always brood when it’s this late.”

“Because I’m  _ sleepy, _ ” he whines. She laughs at him. 

“Hey, you chose to come out here.” She’s grinning.

“What, you thought I was gonna wait till morning to keep looking?”

“Oh, no, you’re a literal baby. I know you sleep like one.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “You’re bullying me.”

Randi opens her mouth to respond, but halts abruptly. She squints out into the night, pulling her hood down. After a moment, her eyes brighten, her mouth dropping open in a broad grin. “Look!” She points. “I think he’s here!”

Jordon looks in the direction she’s pointing. There’s a hooded figure making its way towards them. Exchanging a far-too-excited glance with Randi, he takes a step into the glow of the street lamp, waving. The figure quickens its pace.

Sure enough, the dull light casts a soft glow over a now-familiar face. Randi jumps to her feet with a giggle. Jordon shushes her as she returns to his head.

Dylan is close now, blinking at Jordon. “...Who were you shushing?”

Fuck. “Thought I heard an animal dicking around,” he says. Christ, he’s bad at this.

Still, Dylan takes it in stride. He shrugs and lifts something to his mouth. Jordon squints, taking a moment to make it out. It’s white, small, and burnt.

“Cigarette?” Jordon asks, though the skunky, herbal smell clinging to Dylan puts doubt to that theory.

Dylan blows out a puff of smoke. “No,” he says, a petulant tone to his voice, “I told you I was stoned.” He waves his half-smoked joint around.

Jordon pulls on the most disappointed face he can muster. “You should’ve brought me some.” 

Dylan laughs. “You could’ve told me to when we were texting, dude. I would’ve rolled one for you.”

“That’s gay.” Jordon turns and heads for the entrance to the restaurant, grinning.

Dylan starts after him. “True homies roll each other’s joints, hyna.” He takes another drag.

Jordon stops, his hand poised on the door handle. “...Did you just call me a hot girl?”

Dylan barks out a laugh, choking on the smoke and coughing it out in little puffs. “You can understand me?” he forces out, his shoulders shaking as he wheezes with his laughter. Jordon laughs with him, his face twisting into a large smile. This guy is infectious. Randi’s own amusement laps at the front of his mind.

“Come on,” Jordon says, still chuckling, “let’s - let’s go in.”

They shuffle in together, letting out goofy giggles as they do. “Hey, Chelsea!” Jordon shouts, because no one else is here to complain about his volume. “I’m here!” 

“One second!” a woman calls from the back. 

“You know,” Jordon says, throwing a glance at Dylan, “that kid at the metaphysical store didn’t really remember you.”

Dylan’s shoulders tense. He gives a stiff shrug. “I’m better forgotten, man.”

Jordon blinks. What the  _ fuck _ does that mean?

Before he can even try to start thinking of a way to respond to that, Chelsea emerges from the back, her hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Hi, Jordon.” She pauses, nose wrinkling, and fixes a glare on Dylan. “Are you  _ smoking  _ in here?”

Jordon looks at Dylan. Dylan looks at Jordon. He has his joint halfway to his mouth. He coughs and rubs the back of his neck. “My bad,” he says.

Chelsea rolls her eyes. “Great. Just perfect.” She sighs and turns back to Jordon. “You find what you’re looking for?”

“Not yet,” he says, shifting his weight. “Have you heard anything from Jeff recently? I think he lost my number again.”

Chelsea purses her lips. “No, actually, I haven’t heard anything from him. He fucked off again a while ago.”

Jordon sighs, his shoulders slumping. Damn it. There’s a gentle brush against his mind, a reassuring nudge from Randi. “Well, there goes my next lead.” He rubs his face. “Thanks anyway, Chelsea.” 

“Sure.” She throws a glance at Dylan before stepping closer to Jordon. “Look, Jordon…” She gives Dylan another searching gaze. He stares back at her, unperturbed. She huffs. “Look, there was this guy prowling around a few days ago after you came to talk. Real mean-looking. He kept staring at me and looking around and shit.” She bites her lip. “Look, man, I don’t know anything about special rocks or whatever the hell it is you’re looking for, but if this is some sort of black market thing…”

He stares at her. “What kind of - ” He cuts himself off, stifling a laugh. “I think Jeff’s paranoia has rubbed off on you, Chelsea.”

She glares at him. Dylan looks between them, his face amused but still indifferent. Chelsea shakes her head, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “Whatever,” she mutters. “But if you’ve gotten yourself into some kinda mess, don’t bring me into it.” She whirls around, storming into the back.

Dylan looks back at him, brow furrowed. “The hell was that?”

“Guess all my ‘contacts’ are conspiracy nuts,” Jordon says with a shrug. He sighs. “Sorry for dragging you out here so late.” He turns and heads back to the front doors.

“Nah, you’re good, I had nothing else to do. Who was that, anyway?”

“Well, the simple version is: she knows a few people that might have some kind of knowledge that could help me.”

Once they’re on the street, Dylan stops, stares at Jordon again. “Why exactly did you invite me?”

Jordon pauses, taking a moment to consider his answer. He doesn’t really want to say  _ because the only real human interaction I’ve had is with people who are too paranoid to be my actual friends and I want to have a connection with someone that isn’t my imaginary friend.  _ That’s a little much for someone he’s known less than a day.

“I don’t know, man. I just think you’re cool,” he says instead. “You could say I… vibe with you.”

Dylan snorts with laughter, tossing his finished joint into the trash can on the sidewalk. “Yeah, okay, we vibe.” He hesitates. “I, uh - guess I should get going?”

His spirits dampened, Jordon tries not to show his disappointment. “Yeah, I guess so.” A sharp ringing sounds off in his head, with a protesting jolt from Randi. 

They both stand there for a long moment, neither of them eager to part ways just yet. Jordon glances around, searching for some sort of excuse.

The McDonald’s down the street is still open. Randi gives his brain an encouraging nudge. “Hold on,” he says. Dylan looks back at him. He points at the McDonald’s. “You wanna get some shitty fast food instead?”

Dylan’s eyes brighten. “Hell, yeah.” He starts down the street, gripping Jordon by the wrist and tugging him along. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Back in a silent, still neighborhood, a man douses himself and his home in gasoline.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The first thing Jorel notices after stumbling out of the drugstore with a little box of Tylenol in his hands is the sight of two fire trucks, an ambulance, and a police car blazing down the street. If he weren’t so disoriented, he might be able to access his already-established knowledge that they wouldn’t be sending an ambulance to a burglary if the people in the house weren’t hurt. Unfortunately, the only thing he registers is the police car. The police car near him.

He bolts.

The world spins and flips around him, but he runs anyway, even if he’s not sure anymore whether or not he’s actually on solid ground. He takes a turn at random and immediately regrets his decision. 

He barely catches himself when he goes down, retching out bile as the world spins, blurring and twisting in his vision. He forces himself back to his feet and stumbles to the nearest building, unable to make out its details, pushing himself against the door. It opens.

He practically falls inside, hooking his fingers on the edge of the wall. He pulls himself against the wall, pressing his head to its cool surface and squeezing his eyes shut. He inhales raggedly, skin burning and prickling beneath his hoodie. He scrabbles weakly at his sleeves, desperate for the heat to leave. It feels like he’s been falling forever, like he’s been suspended in mid-air even as the world moves. Shit, he’s gonna throw up.

“Holy shit, dude, are you okay?” Jorel flinches at the sudden noise, eyes flying open. The world remains fuzzy, but it’s finally still. It’s the inside of a McDonald’s. He takes a deep breath and searches for the source of the voice.

There are two men standing near him, their table scattered with food but abandoned behind them. One is tall and slender, his hair falling around his concerned face, his hand outstretched but frozen in the air, like he can’t decide whether or not to grab Jorel. There’s something familiar about him. Jorel looks at the other man, squinting in an attempt to get a clear picture. His face is round. He looks a little unkempt.

Wait.

Recognition dawns on the other man’s face. His gaze falls to Jorel’s arm, to the sloppy bandage wrapped around the bit of skin peeking from his mussed sleeve. 

“Wait,” the man with the round face says, “aren’t you the dude who bled on me?”

Jorel hurriedly pushes at his sleeve in an attempt to cover the bandage. It’s too late. They keep staring at him, expectant. 

“...Yeah,” he croaks. “Sorry.” He wipes his sweaty forehead.

The two guys exchange a look. “Wanna sit down?” the tall one asks. Jorel is too focused on not passing out to turn the offer down.

He collapses into the chair they pull up, drawing in pained breaths as he drops his box of Tylenol on the table. This isn’t the  _ worst  _ he’s ever felt, but it’s up there. It used to be easier to deal with getting sick when he had someone with him. His heart twists.

He closes his eyes, trying desperately not to faint on these guys’ table.

“Seriously, dude, are you okay?” Jorel forces his eyes open again, looking back up at them. They’re both sitting across from him, frowning. 

He bobs his head, wincing at the wave of nausea that the motion brings. “Yep. Fine,” is all he can manage.

They exchange another glance. “Well,” the tall one says, his voice almost muffled by the sheer amount of fuzz in Jorel’s brain. “I’m Dylan.” He gestures to the other man, who keeps glancing between Jorel’s now-covered arm and the Tylenol. “This is Jordon. Jordon-with-an-O.”

Jorel takes a moment to register what he’s just said. They’re watching him, expectant again. He sighs. He’s already bled on them and collapsed on their table, hasn’t he? “I’m - Jor - Jo - ” He shakes his head, grimacing at the next spin it brings. “Jorel.”

He loses track of the conversation from there, nausea coiling in his stomach as heat pulses beneath his skin. At some point, he realizes they’ve finished their food and are waiting for him to respond. He stares blankly.

“Did you get any of that?” Jordon asks.

“What.” He really does know how to give eloquent responses, doesn’t he?

Jordon doesn’t seem too upset about it, though Jorel knows better than to take people at face value. “We asked, like, eleven different questions and you didn’t answer any of them.”

“Oh.”

Jordon squints. “...Have you gotten your arm checked out yet? Is everything okay? That was a lot of blood.”

Jorel winces. “I took care of it.”

“At a doctor or...?” Jordon asks. He looks to the side, an intent look on his face. 

Jorel scowls. “I’m homeless,” he snaps, wincing at the amount of breath it takes from him.

Jordon looks to the side again, then to Dylan. Dylan looks back. Jordon turns back to Jorel. “Do you want me to take you to a doc? Or,” he pauses, “how bad is it?”

Jorel’s stomach climbs into his throat, his eyes going round. “No! No doctors. It’s - not that bad.” 

Dylan leans forward. “We could buy you medicine?” 

“No,” he says. “Get out of here.”

Jordon frowns. “But - ”

“Leave me alone.” His face twists at the wave of heat rushing through his body. 

They exchange another look. Jordon sighs. “Do you have a phone?”

“Maybe I do.” He clenches his jaw. “Why?”

Jordon’s eyes brighten. He snatches one of the napkins from the table and pulls a pen from his pocket. 

“Where’d you get that pen?” Dylan asks, watching Jordon jot something down.

“I keep it on me just in case.” Jordon sets the pen down and passes the napkin across the table to Jorel. He takes it reluctantly, blinking down at the sight of a phone number printed on the paper in big, blocky letters.

Jordon gets to his feet, Dylan after him. “We’ll leave you alone if you really want, but… call me if you change your mind?” Jordon asks, tone hopeful.

Jorel stares up at him. He can’t remember the last time anyone cared. “I - maybe.”

They accept it, and Dylan waves as they shuffle away towards the exit, though both seem hesitant to leave, throwing concerned glances at him every other second.

Jorel watches the doors close behind them, and imagines for a moment that he is walking behind them. Following them.

Following.

_(Keep following)_

Shit.

Jorel looks at his Tylenol, then through the window as the men start down the sidewalk. God _ damn  _ it. With a groan, he grabs the little box and forces himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the tilting of the room around him. 

He stumbles to the door and pushes himself outside, sighing in relief as the cool night air caresses his burning face. He turns to look at Dylan and Jordon, mumbling to each other as they walk.

Hesitantly, Jorel pushes on, following after them. “Wait!”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George stalks after the fire trucks, intent. He doesn’t really need to; he can smell the smoke.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny has gotten lost at least ten different times in the past seven hours, each time worse than the last. He has only a vague idea of where he is right now, pulled over on the side of the road as he rubs at his strained, stinging eyes. Louie’s restlessness had been more prominent before the sun had gone down, but now he seems content to just prop himself up and watch out the window. 

Of course, since they’re not moving at the moment, he’s just giving Danny a very unimpressed look.

Danny stares down at the GPS. He can see the letters, but he can’t string them together in his mind. It hadn’t been helpful even when he  _ could  _ understand it. It had just taken him where he absolutely did not need to go. It’s not even fully connected to the internet right now. Louie grunts in the background. 

He tosses the phone down and rubs his face again. He knows he’s in a very small town that he’s never been to before. He knows that he’s facing north. It had taken him almost ten minutes to figure out those things. His nerves are drawn tight and twitchy beneath his skin, his stomach jolting with discomfort every few seconds. His throat is stopped up like he’s about to cry.

He starts his car again and drives on, turning southward in the hopes of getting back on track. 

By the time a slightly more familiar town comes into view, Danny is almost ready to give into the urge to cry. He pulls over once more to compose himself, pressing his hand to his stomach and taking a deep breath.  _ Fuck,  _ his anxiety is killing him.

His phone rings, and Danny almost jumps out of his skin. Louie gives him another critical look.

Danny breathes out, struggling not to let his foot bounce against the pedals. He ruffles through his hair, reaching down with his free hand to answer the phone as his heart hammers faster. Who’s calling him so late?

“H - hello?”

“Hi, Los Angeles police department.” Danny’s blood goes cold. “Is this Daniel Murillo?”

Danny shakes in his seat, trying and failing to find any response that isn’t a pathetic squeak. He hates calling the police. He hates it. He hates it hates it hates it.

“Hello?”

“Yes,” he forces out, body tensing, winding up tight, steeling himself against the Bad that he knows is coming. “This - this is him.”

There’s a note of relief in the caller’s voice. “Good, we couldn’t find you in - well.” There’s a long pause. Danny wants to scream. “I’m very sorry, sir. A house next to yours was set on fire. Your home has received a lot of damage.”

Danny sits there, mind going blank, his arms going numb. 

“Please come down to - ”

Danny hangs up without a word, throwing his phone onto the center console. His vision is blurring, his chest going cold. It’s very hard to breathe. 

_ Oh _ ,  _ fuck,  _ is his first coherent thought.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George stands a small distance away from where the firefighters are still combing through the three fire-damaged houses. He watches, waits.

They only find remains in one of the houses. There’s nothing significant about the corpse, other than being the product of a particularly gruesome method of suicide. It’s one of the others that interests him. 

He can feel the traces of its owner lingering even in the air around it. He knows it’s about to  _ click. _

He’s almost there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know that one kfma interview w/ j and dylan? at one point dylan says the name chelsea and j goes “charlie’s chelsea?” and i can’t remember ever finding the context behind that but that’s where chelsea comes from. you probably won’t see her again but here she is anyway


	5. Click.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the best day Jordon’s had in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> late night update bc i have somewhere to be in the morning and i am very very impatient and excited abt this chapter dvdb.

“Wait!” 

Jordon and Dylan stop, turning back to see the man they’d just spoken to now stumbling towards them. Jorel.

Dylan’s thigh tingles where the shard is. 

Jorel’s brow is furrowed and his steps are wobbly, but he’s pushing on towards them anyway. 

“Hey!” Jordon chirps, a spark of relief in his chest as Dylan grins beside him. Randi’s own enthusiasm pushes at Jordon’s. “Change your mind?”

Jorel stops and looks between them for a moment, frowning. He’s been frowning the entire time. Dylan’s a little concerned that he’ll get worry lines.

“Didn’t change my mind about the doctor, no,” Jorel mutters, avoiding their eyes. He shoves the napkin and his little box of medicine into the oversized pocket of his hoodie. “Just wondering where you guys are going.”

They exchange a look. Before Jorel had stumbled in looking like he was three seconds away from keeling over, Jordon and Dylan’s Ultimate Master Plan had been to wander around and maybe throw rocks at the more pretentious buildings in the area (Dylan had suggested a police station). Neither of them thinks that this guy looks like he can even pick up a rock.

“We were just gonna wander around,” Jordon says, “maybe swing by a male strip club.” 

Jorel stares. “He’s just messing around, man,” Dylan says, laughing. He moves to clap Jorel on the shoulder. Jorel sidesteps it. “But we really were just gonna wander around,” Dylan continues, unfazed. “Do some exploring, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

Jorel squints at him. He doesn’t seem to know what Dylan’s saying.

 _Friend,_ Randi urges.

Jordon looks at Dylan. “Should we take him with?”

Dylan looks at Jorel. “Wanna come with us?”

Oh shit, was Jordon supposed to ask _Jorel_ that question? He’s really not good at this people thing.

Jorel keeps looking at Dylan, then at Jordon, then back again, his brows still knitted together. Dylan is pulled away from his concern over future worry lines when it occurs to him how flawless Jorel’s eyebrows are. 

God _damn_ , those are some nice eyebrows. How the fuck does a homeless guy have better eyebrows than all of Dylan’s ex-girlfriends? Jesus Christ, was he _born_ with those?

“You’re not gonna murder me if I come along, are you?” Jorel asks, snapping Dylan back to the present. It takes him a moment to remember what they were talking about.

Thankfully, Jordon’s on it. “Not unless you _want_ to be murdered, but that might be getting a little too kinky for me.” Okay, maybe Dylan should’ve answered instead.

Jorel stares at him. “Do you always say stuff like that?”

“Yes.”

Jorel looks at Dylan, who just shrugs. “Okay,” Jorel says uncertainly. “I’ll come with you. But don’t try anything.”

“Well, then, come on,” Jordon says, chest burning with the excitement he’s trying not to show. “Let’s start wandering.”

He spins back around, grabbing Dylan by the wrist and setting off at a high speed. Randi pushes the image of a mother tugging her child back by a leash to the forefront of his mind and he slows his pace. He throws an apologetic glance over his shoulder. Jorel, unsurprisingly, frowns and quickly averts his eyes. As Jordon redirects his attention to their trek, now outright holding hands with his new partner in crime, Dylan twists his head to look back at Jorel. A tendril of concern tugs at his heart.

Jorel seems to be struggling with his footing, like he’s on the verge of tripping from every step. His face is pulled into a grimace, his features heavy as he stares at the ground. The dude’s all bones, his hoodie hanging loose off his frame, and Dylan’s starting to think maybe he should give him some of his groceries. 

His musing is cut short when Jorel’s eyes snap to him, startling Dylan enough that he immediately trips over his own feet. He catches himself, but the sudden stumble and the jerk of his arm knocks Jordon clear off his feet too, rendering Dylan’s efforts to stay standing in vain. They go down together.

Jorel stops in his tracks, staring down at the two men sprawled across the sidewalk.

“Shit,” Dylan breathes, rolling onto his back and gripping his sore arm. “Jesus.”

Jordon pushes himself into a sitting position, making a disgruntled noise. “Can you bastards stop knocking me over?” he whines. His hat has been knocked onto the pavement once again.

“Bro,” Dylan says as Jordon reaches for his hat, “I think I see a light.”

Jordon shrieks like a toddler as Dylan slaps his hat out of his hand. Jorel rolls his eyes, turning his attention to the night sky and sighing as the other two get into a slap-fight.

What has he gotten himself into this time?

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George traces the faint residue of the homeowner’s energy, trailing out of the neighborhood and to the busy streets, and then onward. The traces are faint in some parts, stronger where they overlap with the old. He ends up going down many dead ends and useless side streets, thrown off by the wrong pieces.

Still, he’s learned to have patience. Learned to push down his unwillingness and the bitter taste in his throat and just keep going. Just _do._

He reorients himself and discerns the fresh from the old, and if he loses the trail he just pauses and tries _harder._

He keeps going.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


By the time they’ve made it to the outskirts of town, Jorel has somehow ended up in between Jordon and Dylan, their arms looped through his. Jordon is at Jorel’s left - his good side - and has already twined his fingers with Jorel’s. (Jorel was not expecting him to be this touchy). Dylan is at Jorel’s right, his arm held just high enough that it doesn’t brush against Jorel’s wound. 

He doesn’t know if Dylan is consciously or intentionally avoiding it, but he’s grateful for it anyway. It still feels like every movement of his arm just tears the bite open further. It burns. Dylan and Jordon are chattering away in his ears, apparently happy to fill the silence without needing anything from Jorel. 

_Damn,_ he thinks. The world is starting to spin again. _I didn’t even make friends with_ Aron _this fast._ Another wave of nausea bubbles into his throat. Tonight has been the most surreal night of his life. He doesn’t even know these people.

They take his stumbling in stride, slowing their pace when he begins to waver from dizziness and heat, though they exchange concerned looks. 

It isn’t long before Dylan stops, sighing deeply. “My place is near here,” he says, voice glum, and releases Jorel’s arm. His hair blows in the wind. “I should get going.”

Jordon’s face falls. “Yeah, you should probably go crash.” He blinks as his body begins to remember how tired he is. Randi nudges his brain. “My place isn’t far from here, either.” He releases Jorel’s hand, untwisting their arms. Jorel stumbles slightly. Jordon frowns.

Dylan notices, too. He looks at Jorel. “You gonna be good for tonight, man?” 

Jorel nods, wincing. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He blinks hard, his fatigue weighing down his face. “I think I should sleep.” 

Jordon shifts his weight. “You still have my number, right?”

Jorel sticks his hand into his pocket, feeling past his Tylenol in search of the napkin. He nods again, grimaces. “Yeah, I got it.”

They’re all silent for a moment.

“Let’s hang tomorrow,” Dylan says. “Text when y’all are up. We should go do some graffiti or something.”

“Righteous,” Jordon says.

“Yeah - ” Jorel presses a hand to his mouth, stifling his yawn. “That works.”

Randi comes back out, a grin splitting her face as she walks home with Jordon. Both of them throw glances over their shoulders until both Dylan and Jorel are gone from sight, parting ways until tomorrow.

As Dylan makes his way home, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the shard. It tingles in his hand. He lifts it to his face.

There are little traces of red now, shimmering beside the orange. He stuffs it back into his pocket. He sighs, a puff of air that pushes forcefully past his teeth. He looks up at the darkened sky, the clouds knitted tightly together. They’re a dark, dark grey. He wonders if a storm is coming.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Having a panic attack on the side of the road wasn’t how Danny wanted to spend his night.

When he’s finished crying and is left hollowed out and weightless, he drives into the nearby town and pulls into an abandoned parking lot. He can’t go home tonight. Another wave of hopelessness washes over him at the thought, and he stifles a whine. He pushes the thought back and grabs his leftovers from the backseat, still crumpled up in a greasy bag.

Once he and Louie have finished eating, he takes him out for a last bathroom break. After, he climbs into his car, puts the seats down, and crawls into the trunk. He doesn’t keep a blanket in his car anymore, hasn’t in a while, so he has to settle for his jacket tonight.

He curls up tightly on the flat, scratchy surface, pulling his jacket over himself. Louie waddles over and flops against his stomach. Danny sighs. His body’s going to hurt in the morning. It’s still chilly out. He can’t find the energy to care.

He lets himself sleep.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George is so close he can almost taste it. Let it be soon. The faster this is over, the better.

The moon is barely peeking out from behind the clouds. Maybe it can sense the changing of the world beneath it. Maybe it’s afraid, too.

He clenches his jaw and pushes on. There’s no need to think about it. He’s almost there.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


It’s the next day - when Danny’s trying to enjoy his breakfast at a little café in town, after the call to his insurance - that he finally meets them.

It’s noon, and he didn’t wake up until a little bit ago. He’s sitting at one of the café’s outdoor tables, feeling half-dead, his eyelids still sticky with sleep as he slowly works on finishing a panini, when Louie’s attention is caught by something in the distance. He lifts his head, ignoring the little piece of sandwich that Danny drops in front of him. A growl begins to rumble from his throat.

Danny blinks down at him. “What’s up, Killer?”

Louie ignores him, growling louder with every second that passes. Danny nudges him with his foot. Louie ignores it, his irritation growing loud in Danny’s head.

A little concerned, Danny lets the last few bites of his sandwich fall to the plate, leaning over as he begins to reach for Louie.

Louie bolts, ripping his leash from beneath the other chair. Danny stares at the ground for a moment before his brain finally catches on to what’s happening. He leaps out of his chair, abandoning his food as he races after Louie.

Louie darts across the street despite Danny’s shouts for him to stop, and Danny has no choice but to follow, throwing cursory glances down the street as he flies across. Louie’s running faster than Danny’s ever seen him run before, and Danny’s own legs are burning with the amount of force he’s putting into the chase. 

The chase ends when Louie races up to three people and immediately launches himself onto a discarded jacket. Someone screams and jumps away, tossing a can of spray paint at him.

“ _LOUIE!_ ” Danny shouts. Louie’s snarling, mercilessly ripping apart the poor fabric, and Danny practically jumps on top of him in his rush to stop him. “ _NO!_ ” He falls to his knees and hauls Louie into his arms, tugging on the jacket and bouncing his rampaging dog in an attempt to get him to release the mangled clothing. “LOUIE, _NO!_ You fucking - _BAD DOG!_ ” He yanks the jacket hard, squeezing Louie at the same time, and it tears out of his mouth.

Louie pants hard, glaring at the jacket. Danny gapes at its shredded remains, hanging in slobber-soaked tatters from where it’s clenched in his hand. Horrified, he looks up at the three men whose afternoons he’s certainly ruined. 

They’re all staring at him. One is still holding a can of spray paint in his hand, his mouth hanging open as he stares at the jacket. One just seems dazed, pressing his arm against his chest in a protective manner. The third one steps forward, reaching out for the mutilated carcass of the jacket. Danny passes it to him silently.

For a long, long minute, the only sound is Louie’s aggressive breathing.

Snapping out of his stupor, Danny is struck by a thick, violent wave of guilt. 

He staggers to his feet, clutching Louie against his chest, his eyes wide. “I’m _so_ sorry, dude,” Danny says hurriedly. “I’m so, _so_ sorry, dude. I - I don’t know what got into him, I - I’ll buy you a new one! Shit, shit, I’m sorry.”

The one holding the jacket stares at him for another second. Then he extends his hand. “I’m Jordon,” he says.

Danny blinks. He looks from Louie to Jordon’s hand and back again. “What?”

“I’m Jordon,” he repeats. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

Danny looks at his hand again. “Um.” Jordon’s hand is still there. He shifts Louie, holding him with one arm as he uses his free hand to shake Jordon’s. “Danny.”

Jordon grins. “‘Sup?” He gestures to the man holding the spray paint. “This is Dylan.” He gestures to the other one. “This is Jorel.” 

Danny blinks, looks at Dylan. Louie lets out another angry chuff. Dylan waves, a lazy grin on his face. Danny turns to Jorel. Jorel doesn’t meet his eyes, his skin pale and flushed blotchy red. Danny looks back at Jordon, who’s now frowning down at his demolished jacket. 

Danny bites his lip, his heart clenching. He can feel Jordon’s confusion turning his brain into thick putty, but there’s no noticeable distress. Small mercies. “I’m so sorry about your jacket, dude, I - let me buy you a new one?” He looks at them with plaintive eyes.

 _Puppy eyes,_ actually. Dylan has no idea how this man has bigger, more innocent eyes than the actual dog he’s holding. It’s… kind of adorable.

 _Jesus,_ okay, so _first_ Dylan got to meet his new best friend of all time, _then_ a man with the most flawless eyebrows on Earth, and _then_ the absolute _cutest_ man he’s ever seen, all in the span of a few days? This might actually be the best week that Dylan’s had in a while. 

“Nah,” Jordon says, waving his hand, “you don’t need to buy one.” 

“Please,” Danny says. He looks down at the grouchy dog in his arms, and then back up at the others, darting awkward glances at the ground. “He doesn’t usually do this stuff, I - I don’t even know how he saw you. I - there’s gotta be some way I can make it up to you.”

“Jordon!” He doesn’t flinch. He _doesn’t._ Randi is standing beside him now, out of absolutely fucking _nowhere._ “Jordon, he’s giving you an in.” She tugs at his sleeve. Danny is blinking at him, waiting for him to respond. “ _Jordon,_ come _on,_ you have an opportunity to have friends. _Three_ friends! Come on!” The silence stretches on. Everyone’s staring at him now.

He blinks hard. “Tell you what,” he says, right as Dylan’s about to ask if he hit his head. “There’s gonna be an outdoor movie thingy at, like, two o’clock or some shit. If these guys are up for it, you could make up for the jacket thing by joining us?”

“Aw, hell yeah,” Dylan says, grinning.

“How much is it?” Jorel mumbles.

“It’s free,” Randi chirps. Jorel doesn’t acknowledge that she’s said anything, still looking at Jordon. She and Jordon both deflate. “Right, he can’t hear me. Keep forgetting, huh?”

She returns to Jordon’s head as he turns his attention to Jorel. “Ah, it’s free.” 

A thread of disappointment tugs at Danny’s heart, though it isn’t his own. He fights back a frown as he looks Jordon over. What’s he disappointed about? Louie grumbles again.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Jorel says. Danny glances at him. A wave of nausea climbs into his throat, his head spinning with sudden disorientation. He swallows and looks away, taking a deep breath in an attempt to ease the sickly feeling. Christ, is Jorel okay?

Jordon looks at him expectantly. Danny takes another breath to clear his head. “Yeah, I’ll join you. Um, you said two?”

“Two o’clock, baby!” Dylan hollers, throwing his arms into the air and slapping Jorel’s shoulder. Jorel and Danny stare at him. Dylan huffs. 

At least Jordon appreciates him. 

Danny looks back at Jordon, nodding. “Right, uh.” He bounces his foot against the ground. “I should get your number.”

Jordon turns to Jorel, extending his hand. Jorel rolls his eyes but reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a slightly crumpled napkin and passing it to Jordon. Jordon turns back, smoothing it out and offering it to Danny. A phone number is printed on it in pen.

Danny nods again as he takes it. “I’ll add you to my contacts, then,” he mumbles. Jordon beams at him. Danny quickly averts his eyes, flapping his hand once before putting the napkin in his pocket. “I’m really sorry about the jacket.”

“Eh, it’s all good.” Jordon looks back at the other two. Dylan is nodding enthusiastically. Jorel just looks sick. Jordon turns back to Danny. “See you then?”

Danny gives him an awkward little smile. “Yeah. See you then.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


During the gap of time before the movie, when Jordon, Dylan, and Jorel separate for a brief time to prepare for it, three things happen:

Dylan sets the shard on his couch while he changes into cleaner clothes. When he lifts it back up, he sees that little streaks of yellow have taken residence inside along with the others. He’s not sure why he’s so attached to this thing. It’s a freaky kind of stone. He rolls it between his fingers before he pockets it again. Four colors doesn’t feel like enough.

Jorel sets up his medical supplies, retrieving a half-full bottle of water from his pack and the little bar of soap from his hygiene kit. With his supplies in his lap, he pushes up his sleeve and carefully peels the bandage away from his skin. The first thing that hits him is the smell. It’s sickly sweet but rotten, and he can’t help his violent gag. The second thing is that this is the first wound he’s ever had that’s looked so _fucking disgusting,_ and he is suddenly, bitterly afraid. He bites his lip and tends to it anyway, pushing down the fear. He has to deal with this himself.

George finds the right trail.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny really would’ve preferred to make the cake himself. Even with custom writing, giving someone a grocery store cake has always felt impersonal to him. But even if he had access to his baking supplies right now, he wouldn’t have nearly enough time to make a cake, bake it, _and_ decorate it. So, in the end, he has no other choice.

If his dog hadn’t torn Jordon’s jacket apart, he would’ve already driven the last 30 minutes or so to his own town now that he knows where he’s going. As it is, that would’ve taken up any spare time he has before the movie.

Instead, he walks Louie for a while and repeatedly tells him why you don’t just attack someone’s jacket. (Louie just stares at him disinterestedly). With the last bit of remaining time, he goes to the grocery store to scout out a cake he could offer the other three, as a way of saying sorry. 

He spends a few more minutes by himself at the park where the movie is being held, watching people slowly fill the place up. Hints of joy and cheer and contentment bounce off of the crowd, though he does catch a few notes of more somber feelings. A plastic bag is tied around his belt, Louie’s leash wrapped around his wrist as he grips the cake’s plastic container with both hands. A white sheet cake beams up at him. He chews his lip, waiting for the others to show up. 

He spots them quickly when they arrive, Dylan between Jordon and Jorel with his arms slung around their shoulders as they hobble along together. Jordon’s carrying a rolled-up sheet. Danny makes his way towards them, Louie following along begrudgingly. His stomach fluttering with nerves, he walks up and holds the cake out to them.

They stare at him for a moment.

“You got us a cake?” Jorel mutters, tugging at his own sleeve. 

Danny lets out an uncomfortable chuckle, looking down at Louie. “As, um - as an apology.”

Jordon takes a moment to process what’s happening before he grins, tucking the sheet beneath one arm as he leans forward and snatches the cake from Danny’s hands. The three of them huddle in together to peer down at it.

Scrawled across the top, in bright green frosting, are the words “Sorry my dog mauled your jacket.” There’s a sad face piped on at the end.

Dylan lets out a goofy chuckle, Jordon grinning even wider. Jorel’s lips curl with amusement. They look at Danny.

He coughs, rubs the back of his neck. “I would’ve made it myself,” he says, still avoiding their eyes, “but I didn’t have time.” He looks back at them, his puppy eyes in full swing as he says, “I’m sorry, I know it’s not very personal, but - ”

Jordon laughs, disbelief thrumming in his chest. “Dude, it’s still _cake,_ who gives a shit if it’s super personal?” He hands the cake to Jorel and adjusts the sheet beneath his arm. He reaches out, gripping Danny’s wrist. Danny freezes for a moment before he reminds himself that it’s a friendly touch, allowing Jordon to drag him along.

Jordon releases Danny’s wrist, taking the sheet from beneath his arm and opening it, splaying it across the ground. He flops on top of it, Dylan dropping down beside him. Jorel sits beside Dylan, curling his knees up to his chest and passing the cake to Jordon. Jordon pops the lid of the container off. 

“Looks like we’re gonna have to eat with our hands,” Jordon says. He looks up at Danny, who slowly lowers himself to the sheet. Louie collapses beside him. 

“Actually,” Danny says, untying the bag from his belt. “I got these.” He pulls out a bundle of plastic utensils and a little stack of polka-dotted party plates. He places them in front of the cake.

Jordon and Dylan stare at him like he’s just hung the moon, the movie’s previews playing in the background. He bounces his leg, looking away.

“You’re a literal saint,” Jordon breathes. Dylan bobs his head in agreement. Jorel raises a brow at them, one hand still fiddling with his sleeve.

Face growing hot, Danny rubs the back of his neck. “Just… planning ahead.” It doesn’t stop them from gazing at him with pure admiration, like he’s unlocked the secret to being an adult.

Jordon turns his attention back to the cake, to Jorel making a snide comment at the melodramatic lady who’s screaming her lungs out in one of the trailers. 

_I love them,_ Randi remarks from inside. He thinks they’d love _her_ , too.

His heart sinks then, and he wishes desperately that they could see her, that he could really have all his friends together. Danny looks at him from the corner of his eye.

 _Jordon._ There’s something defensive about the way she sends it to him. _I’m not real._

He takes a deep breath. _Come out?_

And there she is, sprawled on the ground only a few feet away from him, her lips pursed. Relief floods him at the sight of her, and he turns his attention back to the screen as the movie starts. 

Randi sighs and shakes her head, but doesn’t complain. He takes comfort from her presence. Even if they can’t see her, _he_ can. It feels good to have all his friends in sight.

He smiles at her discreetly. She looks at him for a long moment. Looks at the other three. Back at him. She smiles back.

This is the best day Jordon’s had in a long, long time.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


She stands far from them, tucked away in her little hiding spot, and she watches.

She supposes that, in the end, her attempts to slow the progression did succeed. He could’ve been taken in much sooner, before he would ever get the chance to meet the others, and so for that she should be thankful. There would be no hope for him at all if he was alone.

Still, they’re all so painfully unaware, absorbed in their own inner worlds. Oblivious to the stirrings of the world around them. She wishes she could reach inside of Terrell’s head and pluck out that little piece of him that he carries around as a friend, but she knows it wouldn’t understand either. He’s not the one she’s here for anyway.

She can feel the doorways growing thinner and thinner, and she knows the other one is almost here. 

She takes a deep breath and smooths down her dress. Sends a silent apology to him, because he’ll be swept away in all of this, and the attention on him had been drawn sooner than it should’ve been. She’d been careless.

There’s nothing left for her to do but hope for the best, hope that they’ll do all that they need to. She’s already pushed the limits of her interference, and she can’t afford to be swallowed when she has less on her side than he does.

She observes them for another long moment, feels the doorways thinning further. 

She turns and walks away, her lip between her teeth, and holds her faith in them.

They’ll protect each other. They have to.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The trail ends at the park, and George knows he’s finally there.

He creeps along the edge, scanning the crowd. His eyes fall on a group of four men, laughing together as a movie plays on some oversized screen. One is hunched over, fidgeting, a bulldog sprawled next to him. One is tearing into a cake as the one beside him bobs his head, his hair bouncing around his neck. The last one is curled up in a tight ball, pain drawn in every line of his body. There’s a faint glimmer of energy in front of them.

George’s veins surge.

It clicks.

Finally.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny’s stomach jolts, a vague unease settling into his bones. He darts a few glances around, looking behind him as his throat tightens. Louie lets out a soft growl, but it’s short-lived. He returns to his dozing.

There’s nothing that could explain Danny’s anxiety. Everything looks exactly the way it did a minute ago. He swallows and turns back to the movie, hoping that his fluttering heart is just the result of unintentionally hooking on too hard to someone else.

He throws a quick glance towards Jorel, who’s shivering slightly, his arm clutched against his chest. He looks sick. Danny bites his lip as he forces himself not to tune in. Jorel really doesn’t look okay. 

He lets out a shaky breath. He wishes he wasn’t so anxious.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George just needs a way in. A vulnerability. Something he can use to make an opportunity.

He looks at the man curled into a ball. He reaches as far as he can, letting his own energy brush against the man’s.

Sickness. Infection.

He looks at the man’s arm.

Yes. A way in.

He opens a little pocket in his own mind, reaching out again to connect.

He just needs to do what he does best.

He stares at the man’s arm.

He needs to make things worse.


	6. Dog Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second Jorel pulls his sleeve up, he knows it’s gone too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: descriptions of an infected wound, descriptions of the wound in general, instances of vomit, just general nastiness
> 
> happy valentines + new empire release day!!! i like to call this one my “bridge” chapter. getting to the meat ;) the bizarre meat ;)) also sorry if there’s any delay in chapters!! my mental health’s kinda shot right now n it makes writing difficult

Danny comes to the realization fairly quickly that Jordon is shockingly tactile. Danny can’t really complain about the tactility itself, because God knows Danny himself gets physical as hell, but the problem is that what started as a Weird Day is turning into a Hypervigilance Day and every touch startles him. 

Danny  _ wants  _ to push past the discomfort - because he can feel Jordon’s barely-there thread of anxiety that eases with the waves of relief that come when Jordon touches him, like he’s making sure that Danny’s still there. Something about it feels… instinctive. And Danny’s always happy to provide comfort however he can, but he’s having a  _ really  _ hard time winding down, and he would rather not have a breakdown in front of these guys. 

Confronted with the possibility of hyperventilating all over their cake, he gradually shifts himself and his plate down to the other end of the group, where Jorel sits. Jorel seems decidedly less physical than the other two, who are almost outright cuddling each other at this point. They’re muttering to each other in what seems to be a very lively conversation. Jordon doesn’t really seem to notice Danny moving; which, yeah, would make sense considering how the touches had felt more like a compulsion or some sort of habit or instinct than anything else.

He settles beside Jorel, though his choice is questioned by the wave of pure  _ sickness _ coming from Jorel.

He scrutinizes Jorel from the corner of his eye. He’s hunched in on himself, hugging his knees against his chest, his body wracked with erratic, convulsive shivers. Danny bites his lip, looking back down at his cake. 

There’s a flash of a memory. Danny can barely hide his flinch as it bursts into his mind and disappears just as quickly, winking out before he can even try to grab onto it. He reaches for it anyway, because it’s  _ important  _ something about it is  _ important.  _ It sits just outside of his consciousness, teasing at the edges of his mind, dancing away from his attempts to recall it. He can almost remember it. He’s so close to remembering it, a half-finished picture forming in his mind.

It vanishes. He’s left with only a tight, queasy knot in his stomach. He swallows, a bead of sweat trailing down his neck, and looks at Jorel.

Jorel’s shivering has gotten even worse. Danny watches him.

_ Danny, your life  _ is _ magic.  _ He blinks. The thought fades slowly, out of place and inexplicable. He’s not sure why today feels Like This. His stomach rolls.

Jorel shivers. Danny looks back down at his cake.

Something’s wrong. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Something’s wrong. Jorel already knew that something was wrong, but now something’s  _ really fucking wrong  _ and not in a way he can ignore anymore. 

The realization that  _ oh my god it’s getting worse  _ comes halfway through the movie, when Danny has shifted himself to Jorel’s end instead. He’s blinking at Jorel, his slice of cake in his lap, his eyes big and round with concern. Jorel thinks that Danny might have said something, but it’s lost in the sensation of the bite stretching open, and then a feeling like something’s wriggling beneath the wounded skin - the skin tugging, shifting.

The feeling of nails digging into the damaged, inflamed flesh, then  _ twisting. _

He flinches violently, suppressing a cry. His breath leaves in a wheeze, his vision going blurry and streaky. Dylan and Jordon quiet down, turning worried eyes on him. Jorel’s arm feels like it’s going to fall off. Jaw clenched tight, he looks up at Danny with watery, hazy eyes. Danny’s face is open, his eyes shining with something like fear. Jorel doesn’t think it can compare to the terror muddying his own brain.

The pain fades back into a burning throb, and he lets out a shaky sigh, his throat tight. His skin is hot and flushed, sticky with the cold sweat sealed against it. His head swims, black spots dancing in and out of his vision. 

_ Oh my god,  _ he thinks, heart slamming against his rib cage as another jolt of pain lances up his arm.  _ It’s not gonna get better. _

“Jorel?” The others are staring at him.

He shakes his head, biting back a groan at the sharp stabbing sensation in his skull. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. He’s probably going to die.

Dylan and Jordon exchange a look. They slowly return to the movie and their hushed conversation, throwing glances his way every so often. Jorel presses his forehead against his knees, another groan bubbling in his chest at the queasy flip of his stomach, the wavering of his throat.

“...Jorel?” Jorel slowly looks back up at Danny, trying desperately not to feel like he’s been suspended over the edge of someone’s roof. Danny’s peering at him, brow furrowed. He’s fiddling with his fork, rolling it between his fingers. “...Do you want us to just save you some cake?” he asks. 

Jorel’s eyes fall to the half-eaten slice on Danny’s plate, to the fork coated with crumbs and thick globs of frosting. Jesus, he’s gonna throw up. 

“Yeah,” he grits out, stifling a burp that feels more like impending vomit. “Save some.”

Danny leans in closer to Jorel, careful to still give him space. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, quiet enough that Dylan and Jordon don’t hear him over the sound of their own fervent (and apparently worthy of bizarre sound effects) conversation. 

Jorel’s teeth click together, a quiet fizzing noise in the back of his brain. “Just kinda feel like shit today.”

Danny nods, eyes full of understanding. He glances at the screen, then back at Jorel. “I could drive you home?”

Jorel tenses, his arm jolting. He inhales sharply. “I’m homeless,” he says. “I know the - the right spots around here if I can’t make it back to mine.”

Danny’s eyebrows draw together tightly, a worried crease between them. He shifts, rubbing his legs together and tapping at his plate. Watching him isn’t helping Jorel’s violent motion sickness. “Are you sure?” Danny whispers. He glances at Dylan and Jordon, who are still embroiled in their discussion. “I’m happy to help.”

“I’m sure.” Jorel winces as his head squeezes. “It’s fine.”

Danny bites his lip, looks back down at his plate.

“It’s fine,” Jorel says again.

Jorel doesn’t think that Danny believes him.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George watches them for a while longer, lingering out of sight as their movie draws to a close and they begin to part ways.

He wishes he could do it now. But he can’t. No. Not in the open.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. Watches as the man with the infected arm begins to make his way home. He’s so unaware, oblivious to the way George is untangling the threads. Slowly pulling a little piece of his mind open. 

Just enough for George to use.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


He’s so close. So close. He just needs to get them out of the picture, keep the others away long enough, and he wins. The tethers are getting weaker. Just a little longer, and his worlds will bleed into each other.

He’s never been so excited.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The others are hesitant about Jorel leaving. Danny tries, again, to offer to drive him. Jordon and Dylan invite him to “go adventuring” with them. 

They’re worried about him. They ask him several times before he leaves if he’s sure he’s okay, and he nods along each time. He doesn’t want to go to the doctor.

He makes his way home, slowly and painfully, pressing his arm against his chest. The flesh pulls and twists with every movement, and he’s almost panting from how badly he’s burning up. Through his hoodie, his fingers brush against the wound.

He yelps, jerking his hand away as he stumbles, scrambling for a foothold. He squeezes his eyes shut, his stomach dropping, his arm tearing and burning and ripping as he pitches forward.

His feet are off the ground, the wind whipping around him, his neck craned forward as he braces for the impact.

The impact that never comes.

The wind flies around him, the pressure of the air pushing his stomach flat, hot bile racing up his throat into his mouth, his face pulled tight, his limbs pinned by the wind, the skin peeling back from his wound, and he is  _ still falling. _

He opens his eyes. 

A vast, empty blue stretches around him.

He cries out.

He snaps his eyes shut, slamming his palms down against the ground as he vomits across the pavement. He opens his eyes. He’s on his knees on the sidewalk, his head pounding violently, the world still spinning and flipping around him, his throat burning and his nose running, his arm  _ screaming,  _ and the sky isn’t even blue.

He was falling.

He looks down at his own vomit, pooling in the cracks of the sidewalk. He was falling.

He looks up at the empty streets around him, the grey clouds rolling across the sky. The world is silent and still. He was falling.

He scrambles to his feet, biting back another cry at the way his arm twinges and pulls and draws tight. He races back for the studio, stumbling and tripping as he goes, his vision flipping and twisting. 

He doesn’t know how long he runs, but he makes it there eventually, slamming his uninjured side against the outside of the studio, body crumpling as he pukes again into a bush. He’d already lost most of his stomach’s contents earlier, and even when the rest of it is gone he dry heaves for a while before his body finally stops trying. 

He drags himself inside and pulls himself to the corner, collapsing and curling up as tight as he can. He was falling. The wound burns. He was falling.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon does mean to continue his search after the movie. He’s been planning to drag Dylan along with him (and Randi) because he really does need to get back to it.

But then Danny is calling after them, and that plan goes out the window. “Wait!” 

Jordon and Dylan halt, turning to look back at Danny, who’s shuffling towards them a little nervously. His grumpy bulldog waddles along beside him. 

“‘Sup, homes?” Dylan says.

Danny coughs. “Um.” He glances at them and then looks away. “I was just - well, I, uh, wanted to make a - a care package of sorts for Jorel and I was just wondering if, maybe, you wanted to help?” He looks back at them with those goddamned  _ puppy eyes. _

“Oh my god,” Dylan says. Jordon bobs his head in agreement.

“You’re a saint,” Jordon repeats. He means it. “I only have twenty bucks on me, though.”

Danny shakes his head, rushing to reassure him. “No, I have enough money for it! I just wanted to know if you guys wanted to help, since - since you’re his friends. I have my car, if you’re comfortable with me driving.”

“Of course we’re gonna help!” Dylan announces, practically bouncing on his feet as he looks to Jordon. “Unless you still wanna do your thing?”

Jordon looks at Randi. She gives him an encouraging nod. Jordon thinks for another second, looking back at them. His talisman can wait. “Yeah,” he says with a grin. “Let’s do it.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The second Jorel pulls his sleeve up, he knows it’s gone too far. Even the little amount of blood squeezing through the gaps of his bandage is mixed with a thick, discolored fluid. And the  _ smell.  _ If there was anything left in his stomach, he’d throw up again. 

He fumbles with his uninjured hand in search of his little flip phone. It slips from his hand a few times before he finally manages to get a good hold on it, pulling up Jordon’s contact.

He raises it to his ear, listening to it rattle with how badly his hand is shaking.

“Jorel?” Jordon says on the other end.

Jorel clears his throat, wincing at the burn. “I… need- help.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“What size do you think he wears?” Danny asks, thumbing through the store’s stack of hoodies. Jorel’s had looked a little worn down, he thinks.

“Dunno, man, but he’s pretty stringy,” Dylan says, eyeing a collection of colorful hats. “Anything would prolly be too big.” Danny makes a small, frustrated noise.

Randi tucked back in his head, Jordon rocks the cart back and forth. “How are we gonna get this stuff to him anyway?” he asks, stopping to peer down into it. They’ve put together a pretty good collection: snacks, baby wipes, bandages, ointment, floss, chapstick, lotion, washcloths, toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, gum, gloves, socks. 

Jordon’s a little impressed by their forethought.

Mostly Danny’s forethought, but he digresses.

“I don’t know his address,” he continues, pulling himself out of his contemplation of their shopping. 

Danny unfolds a hoodie, moving over to Dylan to size it up against him. Dylan doesn’t seem to mind. “Well,” Danny says with a nod, beginning to refold the hoodie. “I’m not sure if he’s comfortable with us knowing where he stays, so I just thought, you know, we’d get everything and  _ then _ ask him where we should take it, so - so he doesn’t have to wait in one spot forever.” He pauses, blinking up at Jordon and Dylan as they stare at him. He shifts uncomfortably. “What?”

“You’re the most responsible person I’ve ever met,” Jordon says, as if he’s known a plethora of people in his life.

Danny rubs the back of his neck. “Right, uh, well, let’s - let’s not leave Louie in the car too long.” He places the hoodie in the cart.

Jordon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. “Hang on,” he says, reaching in to retrieve it. He looks down at the caller ID, frowning as he presses answer. “Jorel?”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George waits. He won’t have to much longer, he knows, because they’re already on their way. 

He’s learned to have patience, yes, but dear god, it’s unbearable to wait for something you’ve never wanted.

He takes a deep breath, pushes it down. 

A warning would be fair, wouldn’t it? A warning. And a way to make them just a little more vulnerable for him. He sighs. 

He does what he has to.

He slips through the pathway. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel texts them the address, explains to them that it’s an abandoned place.  _ Just come in,  _ he says to Jordon.

They’d sped through self-checkout, practically tossing their shit around in their rush to get out and on their way to Jorel.

Danny rolls up to a worn-down building, faded lettering across the front spelling out “RECORDING.” Its windows are boarded, the door partially closed but still busted mostly off its hinges. The guys leap from the car, Danny scooping Louie up with one arm and picking up a few bags with his free hand as Dylan and Jordon collect the rest. They hurry up to the door together.

Danny gives it a cursory knock, just to be safe.

From the other side, Jorel groans, “Come in.”

Dylan pushes the door open as they stumble in, grinding to a halt. The studio is devoid of any furniture, a singular booth in the back with no microphone left, its controls long destroyed. 

Jorel is tucked into a corner off to the left, his back pressed against a musty wall as he lies on his side, curled up in a ball. He peers up at them through his hood, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

Danny lowers Louie to the ground near the door as he shuffles along after Jordon and Dylan. Jordon crouches down, Danny lingering over his shoulder. Dylan leans against a nearby wall.

“Are you okay?” Jordon asks.

Jorel nods slowly, his eyes slipping closed before he forces them open again. “M’ arm.” He twitches his arm forward, his sleeve pushed halfway up. The bandage wrapped around his arm is dotted with blood. “‘S not good.” 

Jordon carefully grasps his hand, pushing the sleeve up as slow as he can. There’s an acrid, sour, sick smell in the air. Jorel’s face is heavy with oncoming sleep.

“I don’t like that,” Randi says. Jordon glances over his shoulder. She’s standing beside Louie, her arms crossed, her eyes trained on Jorel’s sleepy face. She’s frowning. Jordon’s not sure when she came back out. He looks back at Jorel. He seems to be drifting off.

“Jorel?” Danny’s voice is as tight with anxiety as Jordon’s chest. Dylan moves closer.

Jordon snaps his fingers in front of Jorel’s face, watching him blink back awake. Jordon lowers his hand to Jorel’s bandage, biting his lip as he takes hold of it. Stomach sick, he takes a deep breath, preparing to unwrap it.

“Oh, uh, firs’ aid stuff,” Jorel slurs, flailing his free hand in one direction. They turn in unison to look where he’s gesturing. There’s a first aid kit tucked into the opposite corner.

Dylan pushes himself off the wall, waving a hand to halt Danny as he moves to stand. “I got it, dawg.” He slinks towards the kit, snatching it up and returning to set it near Jordon. He takes a step back, crossing his arms and watching.

Jordon takes another deep breath. He unwraps the bandage.

The smell hits them fully then, like a thick cloud of sweet, rotten meat, and if Jordon weren’t so busy staring in horror and shock at the state of Jorel’s wound, he’d be retching as hard as Danny is.

Danny hurries away, retreating towards Louie (and, unbeknownst to him, Randi), covering his mouth as he gags. 

Dylan claps a hand over his own mouth, taking a step back and staring with wide eyes down at Jorel.

Jorel’s arm is coated with thick, clotted blood, the flesh swollen and the skin gaping open. Streaks of inflamed, flushed red mark the undamaged skin, hot and painful. There’s a yellowish fluid seeping from it, thick and mucus-like.

“Holy shit,” Jordon breathes, mouth gaping.

Dylan inhales sharply, turning and marching to the other side of the studio as his hands fall to his side, his fists clenching. His fingertips buzz and tingle, his veins surging and pulling within his body. The shard tingles against his thigh, surging along with the power beneath his skin.

Dylan takes deep, controlled breaths, struggling to reign his emotion in. Jorel’s arm. Jorel. His friend. His  _ arm.  _ It was fucking disgusting. It didn’t look safe. His friend’s hurt, sick. His nails dig into his palms. He takes another hard breath in.

_ Don’t get carried away with it,  _ his mother’s voice chides.  _ You can control it.  _ It doesn’t help.

_ “Shit,”  _ Jordon hisses. Dylan and Danny turn back to him and Jorel. 

Jorel’s face is lax. He’s fallen asleep.

Danny races back to them, his face filled with panic. “We - we should take him to the ER. We should - we should take him to - ”

“I - ” Jordon stammers, looking from the first aid kit to Jorel’s arm and back again. “I don’t - ”

There’s a thump from outside. Jordon flinches. Danny yelps. Dylan spins around, looking towards the door, his eyes wide and his stance defensive.

Randi peers outside. “I don’t see anyone,” she says. She looks back to Jordon.

Jordon grips Jorel’s hand, mind slow with confusion and panic. Jorel’s fingers twitch against his hand.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel wakes up. He is not awake. He didn’t think it was possible for those facts to coexist. But he knows they are right now. He doesn’t know how he knows.

The dusty, muted walls of the studio are washed bloody red, the windows busted in and crossed over with black tape, jagged shards of glass sticking from them. The windows have never had glass in the time he’s been here. They had wooden boards over them before.

He sees the sky through the broken windows, a thick, swirling dark red, like a pool of wine. The moon is just a white hole in the sky. There’s oil streaking across the walls and the floor, collecting in little pools around the studio.

His eyes fall to his arm. There are gaping pits carved into his flesh, pockets of fluid dotting their way up his arm.

What the fuck.

What the fuck?

The wall across from him begins to break open.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The hallways twist violently, no door in sight. George pushes on, taking every sharp turn. The floors are slanted diagonally, at times twisting so sharply they reach halfway up the wall, designed to be so steep he has to place his hand on the wall and feel his way along. 

So this Place is feeling playful today, huh?

The floor gradually returns to its normal position, flat and where a floor actually should be. He draws to a stop. 

He’s reached a dead end, the walls around and in front of him bare and doorless. He glances behind him. The hallway has disappeared once again, only a wall left behind him, smooth and without an exit.

He turns back to the wall in front of him. He can’t help his eye roll. God, he hates this other world.

Still, it can’t fool him. He knows this dance too well. George presses his hands against the wall and tears it open, climbing through. A man lies on the oil-slick floor, swollen pustules pockmarking the flesh from his wrist to his shoulder. His eyes are glazed over, round with fear, like he doesn’t know that this isn’t real. George knows he doesn’t.

He takes two long strides forward, reaching out with one hand and wrapping his fingers around the man’s thin throat.

The man stares up at him in faint horror. George refuses to let himself feel sorry.

He leans forward. “Wake up,” he growls, and then he breaks the man’s neck.


	7. The Entry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But George’s vision is blurring and his voice is shaking and oh _God_ George can’t do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: strangulation (brief!)
> 
> shorter chapter this time!!! second “bridge” chapter. i’m pretty happy with how it turned out.

Jorel wakes with a start.

“Oh, thank God,” Jordon breathes. Jorel blinks, looks up at him with bleary eyes. Jordon’s fist is clenched so tightly his knuckles are turning white, a washcloth gripped in his hand. He twists around. “He’s awake!”

Danny, flapping his hands as he tries to control his shaking, nods. “Okay, okay, he’s - he’s okay. Okay.”

Dylan glances towards Jordon and Jorel, shoulders lowering slightly with relief, but returns his gaze to the door. He’s still drawn tight, his nerves trembling beneath his skin, the shard humming against his thigh. His veins pulse.

“Right,” Jordon says. He looks down at where he’s attempting to gently clean Jorel’s arm, his stomach turning. He takes a deep breath. “Jorel, we need to take you to the doctor.”

Jorel just stares groggily up at him. Jordon sets the washcloth to the side, grabbing a little pair of scissors and a roll of bandages from the first-aid kit. “I’m just gonna wrap it up so it’s covered while we head there,” he says. Takes another breath as he tries to slow his heart. Randi sidles up behind him, crouching down to rest a hand on his shoulder, warmly reassuring. He exhales slowly. It’ll be okay. 

He slowly wraps Jorel’s arm. Cutting the bandage, he makes sure that it’s secure on Jorel’s arm before setting the scissors down.

Louie leaps up, a ferocious bark ringing through the air. Danny yelps, jumping back as Dylan rushes forward and Jordon snaps to attention. Jorel stirs fitfully on the floor. 

The door crashes open.

“Hey!” Dylan shouts, shoving a panicking Danny behind him. Jordon springs to his feet, snatching the scissors from the floor and rushing forward.

The biggest man that Jordon’s ever seen comes lumbering through the door, scowling down at them. He’s at least six feet, with visible muscles and tattoos scattered across his skin. His fists are clenched.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dylan snaps, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. Louie is still snarling, but he’s farther away now, body tensed, hesitant, like he doesn’t know whether to fight or flee.

The man continues to scowl down at them, a baseball cap backwards on his head. “Well,” he says, and his voice is deep, almost as intimidating as the man himself, “it’s nice to see you all in one spot.”

“The fuck are you talking about, dude?” Jordon snaps, Randi at his back, right as Dylan says “Get the fuck out of here!”

Danny stares at the man, wide-eyed. 

Jorel pushes himself up, head spinning. He’s not sure what’s happening.

“Please,” the man says, voice tense. “Don’t make this even harder.”

“What’s happening?” Danny murmurs. He doesn’t like this. He really doesn’t like this.

“What are you, a cop?” Dylan spits, keeping Danny behind him as he moves to shield Jordon as well. “Get the fuck out of here. It’s occupied.”

“Get Jorel,” Randi whispers. The man’s eyes slide off of Dylan for a brief second, lingering on the space behind Jordon’s shoulder for only a quick blink before he returns his gaze to Dylan. Randi’s nails dig faintly into Jordon’s arm. “Jordon, grab Jorel.”

The man huffs.

Randi squeezes his arm tighter. “Jordon - ”

The man’s shoulders sag, though his fists clench tighter. “It’s nothing personal,” he says.

He lunges at Dylan.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George slams against the lanky one hard enough to jar the other two from their footholds, a pair of scissors clattering to the floor as their owner is knocked over.

It only takes a half-second after the impact for George to connect and breathe the man’s name in. 

Dylan Alvarez.

Dylan shouts as George twists him around, slamming Dylan’s back against the ground. There’s a scuffle a few feet away from them, a cry of  _ “Grab Jorel!”  _ and then Dylan’s face is twisting with panic and anger and he’s driving his knee into George’s gut.

George grunts as Dylan thrashes, his long leg hitting George square in the hip. George slams his own leg against Dylan’s, driving it into the floor, and tries not to wince at Dylan’s cry of pain as his knee jolts.

“ _ Dylan!”  _ one shouts, and George can’t look to see who it is because Dylan is spitting into his face. He’s got ahold of George’s arm, and there’s a white-hot burning bolt of  _ pain. _

He yelps and jerks away from Dylan. Dylan’s hands are smoking.

There’s a jab against his back. George pushes himself onto one foot, spinning around and lashing out. The round-faced one shouts as George’s fist slams into his stomach, doubling over and stumbling back. The impact sends the name through George’s veins up into his mind.

Jordon Terrell.

The blond one shouts,  _ “Jordon!”  _ as the sick one half-hangs off his shoulder. His eyes are round, he’s frozen in place, and George almost wishes that he’d gone for him first. But the bulldog is lingering near him, stance protective, and maybe it’s better that George doesn’t fuck with that right now.

“Go, Danny!” Dylan shouts, pushing himself up and scrambling to grab George. George rams his fist into Dylan’s face, watches him hit the floor.

George turns and strikes Jordon across the face, gripping his wrist as he tries to lunge for the scissors on the ground. He twists. Jordon shouts, kicks out at him.

The blond one - Danny, apparently - is struggling to flee through the back door, dragging his alarmed friend along with him. Said friend, the sick one, is struggling against his hold, weakly trying to get away, perhaps in the hopes that he can help. If George weren’t so busy right now, he might have been chuckling at Danny’s predicament. There’s something about keeping a sick person out of harm’s way only to have them relentlessly fight against it that George finds oddly amusing. In a frustrating way. 

George tries to get fully to his feet. Dylan pushes himself forward, gripping George’s shirt and tugging. George reaches back and swats him away. Dylan snarls, hands sparking, and goes for his leg instead. George slams his shoe into Dylan’s face.

Jordon rams his head into George’s.

The horrific jolt sent through their skulls leaves them both reeling and stumbling, George wincing as he presses his hands against his head. In the moment he takes to get his bearings, Dylan is pushing himself to his feet and grabbing hold of Jordon as he takes off through the back door, both of them stumbling.

George snarls, shakes his head, and goes after them. 

Danny is already some ways away, hurrying in one direction, hauling his still-struggling friend along, and Jordon and Dylan are racing into the woods ahead. 

He needs to stop them. Keep them in one place. He needs to stop them. 

He reaches out, searching for the energy already in the world around him so he can pull it out and shape it for himself.

He flicks his wrist to pull it through, and he knows he’s pulled too hard.

The pathways tear open.

_ Shit. _

The reverberations rumble through the ground, knocking Danny sideways, and Jorel groans as he’s jarred from Danny’s shoulder.

“Shit!” Danny shouts as he hits the ground.

Jorel falls to the dirt, his eyes growing wide as the grass reaches up and seals against his skin, drawing him inside, the sky disappearing as the ground swallows him whole. 

Danny pushes himself to his feet and spins around to pick Jorel back up. He freezes.

Jorel is nowhere in sight.

“Jorel!” he shrieks.

_ Shit,  _ George thinks. 

Danny hesitates for a long moment, and then instead of running away, he starts to run towards the three men barreling into the woods. George almost wants to admire how much this dude likes his friends. The bulldog is on Danny’s heels, snarling and barking like he wants him to stop.

Danny launches himself forward, just barely grabbing George’s arm, and the name shocks itself through him.

Daniel Murillo.

George spins around, slapping Danny hard, and has to fight back the guilt that comes when Danny grinds to a halt, looking confused and hurt.

George whirls around and returns to chasing after the other two, robbing Danny of the opportunity to ask where Jorel went. It won’t compromise anything. Danny will follow. Danny probably wants to help his friends. Danny probably wants to find Jorel. It won’t compromise anything.

Danny  _ does  _ follow.

Neither of them sees the hole open.

All Danny knows is that his feet are no longer on solid ground, and he barely gets a chance to look at the pit beneath his feet before he’s tumbling down, screaming as he plummets into oblivion.

George looks back in time to see the hole closing, the bulldog tearing at the ground as he searches for his owner.

George turns back, fights the guilt, the pain, the panic. He hadn’t meant to open the pathways.  _ Fuck,  _ he’s made things worse.

He leaps forward, finally snagging the back of Jordon’s shirt. Jordon twists wildly in his grasp. Dylan turns back, shouting,  _ “Hey!”  _ and races for them. As George struggles to keep a hold on him, Jordon jabs his elbow in between George’s ribs. Wheezing, George drops him.

Dylan reaches them, launching himself at George. George reels back, gritting his teeth as his blood runs hot.  _ Goddamn it,  _ he never wanted to do this in the first place, why do they have to make this so much fucking harder than it already is? 

Pushing down any desire to apologize, George punches Dylan square in the face. The force of it knocks Dylan off his feet. He crumples to the ground, still conscious but too dazed and limp to get up. Jordon shouts and swings his own fist at George, a burst of satisfaction humming through him when it collides with George’s cheekbone.

Growling, George throws himself at Jordon, tackling him, slamming his back against the earth. They scrabble on the ground for a moment, but George has Jordon pinned. 

Then he’s wrapping his hands around Jordon’s throat and  _ squeezing. _

Jordon’s eyes go wide. He scratches at George’s hands, kicking as he tries to dislodge him, his breath gobbing up in his throat.

_ “Jordon!” _ Randi screams, her voice swimming in his ears, and he thinks he sees her try to hit George. 

George strangles Jordon, looks down at his panicked face. It’s so human, so afraid, and oh fucking Christ, George doesn’t want to do this.

He gives in, his own throat tightening. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. He tries not to look at Jordon’s face, but he can’t tear his eyes away. “I’m sorry, I have to.” But George’s vision is blurring and his voice is shaking and oh  _ God  _ George can’t do this.

He loosens his hold, hears Jordon take a strained, raspy breath. George has to do this. He knows the consequences if he doesn’t. He has to.

But Jordon’s eyes are glassy and wet, and George can’t. He can’t.

George takes a deep breath, grits his teeth, looks down at Jordon limp beneath him. He tries to gather himself, gather his resolve, because he  _ has to do this. _

_ “HEY!”  _ George jumps to his feet, whirling around to see Dylan lopsidedly rushing towards him, face bruised and nose bleeding, his hands alight with violent, purple magic.

Dylan lashes out, and George barely jumps away in time. Hot, screaming energy licks across his skin, and he’s not sure he would’ve left without severe damage if it had hit him fully.

As George and Dylan charge at each other, dodging fists and evading magic, Jordon drags himself away from the fight, struggling to get more air into his burning throat. He rolls over, plants his face against the ground near a bush, feels condensation transfer from the leaves to his skin. He makes a wounded, relieved noise.

The condensation gathers quickly, pooling beneath his nose and his mouth, coagulating around his wrists and his ankles, and it doesn’t occur to him how unnatural it feels until Randi is shouting in alarm and there’s water swirling around his face.

His own cry is muffled by the water as it engulfs him, pulling him into a puddle that wasn’t there before, Randi screaming  _ “JORDON!”  _ as he’s dragged beneath.

“What the fuck!” Dylan shouts, halting in his attempts to beat the shit out of this guy when he sees Jordon’s ankle disappearing into the water, the water dissolving and vanishing without a trace. Jordon isn’t there anymore.

“What the  _ fuck!”  _ Dylan repeats, turning back to the man, who’s stopped in his tracks, his lips drawn into a tight line. “Where’d he go?” Dylan’s shaking now, magic sparking through his skin, panic bubbling inside. “ _ Where did he go?!”  _

The man shakes his head and starts towards Dylan again, but Dylan’s too fucking gone for this. He races away, giving up the fight, because he  _ needs _ to find Jorel and Danny, they have to be together, he needs to find them.

He races further into the woods, the man tearing after him. He needs to find the others.

When Dylan spots the home, a simple little hovel in the middle of the woods, he thinks it’s salvation. He makes a break for it, aiming to bang his hands against the door and call for help. 

George knows what this is, but he can’t slow down in time. 

Dylan slams his fists against the door, his jaw dropping as it swings open, revealing nothing but an empty, endless black.

George slides to a stop. 

He slams into Dylan, knocking him off his feet. Dylan pitches forward. George can’t find his own footing.

Together, they fall into the black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohohoho we getting into the wack ass stuff now lads. dare i say,,, :3


	8. Another Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorel doesn’t know where he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mild body horror
> 
> i forgot to add that warning ghfb 
> 
> this is my longest chapter so far! apologies for the sporadic updates btw, i Cannot pre-write bc i get way too impatient lol. please enjoy!

Jorel doesn’t know where he is, but he thinks he’s been buried alive.

He’s in a wooden box, with just enough space to move his arms, and he can feel the earth pressing in on all sides. His breath is short, barely there. His chest is heavy. He’s lightheaded.

The last thing he can remember is the taste and feeling of dirt filling his mouth, the breath pulled from him as the ground blackened his vision, squeezing his head until it felt like it would burst, the feeling of gritty, dragging dirt pushing down his throat and slowly inching its way towards his lungs.

But there’s no dirt in his lungs now. Just dwindling oxygen.

He needs to get out.

The wood is hard beneath his back, his arm is throbbing, he can’t breathe, there’s no exit but _he needs to get out_

With panic squeezing his heart, he slams his hands against the surface above him, shooting pain up his arm, his breath coming shorter and shorter.

He presses his hands against the lid, pushes desperately despite how bad it hurts, and the lid never budges.

He lets his arms fall limp, desperate tears gathering in his eyes as his breath shudders and thins.

Head growing fuzzier, he blinks. Something glints in the corner of his eye.

He cranes his neck to look. There, inches away from his face, nestled in the very corner of the box, is a rusting little hinge, a tiny bar sticking out from the bolt in the center.

Barely breathing, Jorel reaches one hand towards the hinge and begins to claw at it, fingers shaking so badly he can barely get a grip. His head is spinning, fuzzy. He scrabbles at the hinge, pushes at the little bar until it finally, _finally_ budges.

With a squeal, the tiny bar moves, metal scraping against metal. He pushes it until it stops abruptly, emitting a single click.

There’s a groan from the wood. It wobbles beneath him. He feels himself slide, just barely. He glances towards the hinge again, trying to push through his dizziness, and he realizes that there’s now a gap between the bottom of the box and the side.

The bottom is detaching. Somehow? Somehow.

Hope flaring in his chest, desperate for any escape, Jorel moves his uninjured arm as high as he can. He rams his elbow against the bottom.

The wood groans again, shifts, and he feels gravity pulling at him. The gap is wider now.

A delirious grin on his face, he slams his elbow against it again. And again. And again.

He’s at an angle now, his body tilted to the side and sliding down, but the gap’s still not big enough to get through. He reels his arm back again. Slams it.

He shouts as he tumbles through, the wood disappearing from beneath him as it swings open.

He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but somehow it wasn’t the blunt pain of smacking against solid ground.

His arm crushed beneath him (the uninjured one, thank _fuck)_ and his skull _searing_ , he takes a pained, slightly hysterical moment to wonder what the fuck he did to make the universe suddenly decide to beat the absolute shit out of him. 

With a groan, he opens his eyes, suppressing a nauseous shudder, and slowly sits up. 

The room is solid and gray, the walls and floor lined with spiderweb cracks. It looks like stone, or cement, but shouldn’t his skull have cracked open if it was? Light dances on the walls, waving and shifting like it’s reflecting off a pool, but there’s no water in sight.

He looks up at the ceiling, his throat tightening. 

The ceiling is nothing but packed dirt, a gaping rectangular box embedded in the center, a wooden slab dangling from it.

He looks away, turning his attention to the floor. Is he dreaming? His fever is still there, burning his skin, his throat swelling. This could be a sick dream.

He glances around the room, slowly pushing himself to his feet. The room is incredibly big, and the two doorways in it are both some distance away from him. There’s a doorway behind him and another, very dark one to his left. Adjusting his sleeve, wincing when his arm twinges, he stumbles towards the darkened doorway, head spinning.

Even as he draws nearer, it remains pitch black, with no actual door in sight. He pauses near the threshold, peering into the black. It’s not completely empty, he thinks. He can just barely see the floor inside. 

_Chink._ He flinches, taking a step back and staring into the dark. There’s a faint, metallic whirring, another _chink._ Distant. But there. It sounds like a machine. He doesn’t know enough about machines to tell what kind.

Whirr. _Chink._ Whirr. _Chink._

He doesn’t trust it. Backing away from the doorway, he turns and moves to inspect the other one instead.

This one is dimly lit, though he’s not sure where the light is coming from. Just behind the doorway, tucked against the wall to his left, is a big staircase. He follows each step with his eyes until his gaze reaches the landing, another staircase reaching from it in the opposite direction. 

He returns his eyes to his own level. There’s another staircase just behind the main one, leading down into an area that seems much darker than this one. There’s a hallway past that staircase, with barely any light in it. He can see one door on the side of the hallway, before the rest of it is cloaked in shadow. Dust particles swirl in the darkness.

He looks from the upward staircase to the hallway, then back again. 

He turns around, back into the room, looking around for another exit. He finds nothing. 

It’s either the dark room, the dark hallway, or the stairs.

Biting his lip and taking a deep breath, Jorel hesitantly turns back to the doorway. He steps over the threshold. 

He casts another look at the hallway in front of him. There’s a low creak from it, the sound of a floorboard squeaking. He hurriedly turns to the stairs, exhaling in one long, slow breath. His head is pounding.

He looks towards the hallway again, his chest cold. He doesn’t want to know what’s in it.

Arm held protectively against his chest, he starts up the stairs.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


There’s a moment, when Danny’s body is sore from the impact and he’s too afraid to open his eyes, where he thinks he’s back on the floor of that kitchen, bleeding out on the tile.

But then he opens his eyes, and his surroundings are unfamiliar and he’s not bleeding and there’s no one else around and everything’s okay.

Only, everything _isn’t_ okay, because he has no idea where he is.

He bolts up into a sitting position, almost squealing at the horrific bout of dizziness that overcomes him with the movement. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking deep, frantic breaths as he waits for his head to clear. Once it does, he opens his eyes and finally takes in his surroundings.

He’s in an empty room with a hardwood floor. The bare walls are washed out and toneless, not a hint of color anywhere on them. Danny looks around at the smudged floor. There are little squares that look lighter than the rest of the wood, dust forming around their outlines, like there was furniture there recently.

Danny twists to look behind him, hesitant to keep his back unguarded, and that’s when he notices the hole.

In the space where the ceiling meets the wall, there is a large, gaping crater, dirt packed into its walls. It’s angled slightly, and while Danny has no idea where the hell he is or where the dirt comes from or where it’s going, he knows - he knows...

He looks down at himself. His clothes are speckled with dirt. 

He looks back up at the hole, heart pounding. He fell.

The back of his neck crawls. He fell. He fell through a hole in a house and now he has no fucking idea where he is.

He was running after a strange man after Jorel disappeared and then he fell into a _fucking hole_ and -

Jorel. Is Jorel here? 

Danny jumps to his feet. Jorel. Oh, fuck, what happened to Jorel? His vision is blurring, his heart beating fast. Is Jorel okay? What if Jorel’s dead? What if Jorel’s dead because Danny dropped him and left him behind?

Danny presses his palms against his eyes, whining softly. He takes a moment to breathe, to pull himself together. No. No, he can’t freak out right now. He has to figure out where he is.

Gathering his resolve, he grits his teeth and breathes out again. _Come on, Daniel. You used to be stronger than this._

He takes another breath, lowers his hands. Opens his eyes. 

There’s a wide doorway across from him, leading to a hallway that he assumes goes to the sides considering that going forward would just result in running into the wall, and he strides towards it with determined steps. He’ll figure out where he is. He’ll get out, and he’ll find Jorel. Simple. He’s got this.

He hesitates at the doorway, steps wavering as his brain finally alerts him to the fact that he cannot remember if this doorway was here before.

Gut tight, Danny swallows and steps uncertainly over the threshold. He looks to the right. There’s a pair of large double doors at the very end of the hall, colored a dull, lifeless blue.

Throat tight, stomach fluttering with nerves, Danny looks to the left. Much closer to him, at the end of this side, is a tiny supply closet, the door propped open. The shelves are mostly bare, save for the one in the very middle, which is loaded with small boxes that seem to just be repeats of the same item.

Curiosity piquing despite his anxiety, he shuffles towards the closet, squints at the labels on the boxes. _Cephalexin._ He recognizes the name. There’s a familiarity to it that’s soaked through with the taste he gets in his mouth when he remembers the days spent in the hospital. It takes him a second to place it, the name curling and uncurling at the tip of his tongue.

Cephalexin. Keflex? It was an antibiotic, wasn’t it? One of the nurses at the hospital had rambled about medicines to him when he’d asked her to, while he was still hazy. He thinks that’s it.

He looks at the boxes for a long, long moment. He grabs a box and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket. Maybe it’ll help Jorel.

He turns back around to face the double doors. They stand there patiently, waiting for him.

Hair raising, Danny moves towards them. He takes another breath. He has to find Jorel.

Steeling himself once more, Danny puts his hands on the doors and pushes through.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon gasps, drawing in ragged, desperate breaths as he frantically drags himself out of the water, coughing and sputtering. He spits out a mouthful of water, hacking it onto the floor, his throat burning.

He lies on the stone floor for a while, trying to catch his breath. When his coughing has subsided and his heart has stopped beating so fast, he lifts his head. The entire room is made of stone, light dancing on the walls as it bounces off of the little pool behind him. There’s an incredibly large mirror across from him, and a single closed door near the mirror.

He pushes himself to his feet, head oddly light, and frowns at his reflection. Where the _fuck_ is he?

He takes a shaky breath, closes his eyes, and reaches to Randi for reassurance. 

He can’t feel her.

His eyes snap open, body going cold. _Randi?_ He nudges at random. He can’t feel her. There’s no response. _Randi?_

No response. His mind remains empty.

Head spinning, he says, “Randi?” She always responds when he talks out loud. No response. “Randi!” No response. 

He spins around, looking desperately around the room for some sign of her. There’s nothing. 

_“Randi!”_ he shouts. Nothing. 

Oh, God. His heart climbs into his throat, his eyes burning, his body wound tight. He’s alone. He’s alone and -

Wait. Randi’s always been attached to him. Where would she go if she wasn’t with him? Could she still exist if she wasn’t with him?

He chokes at the thought, head spinning. No, she can’t be gone. She’ll be fine. She’s not gone. She’s fine. He’ll find her. She’s fine.

Fighting back tears, he presses a hand to his mouth. 

Okay, okay. He needs to find her. And he’s not going to find her here.

Taking a shaky breath, he turns and looks at the door. _Okay, Jordon. Leave and find Randi._

He shuffles towards the door, reaches out with a numb hand. He tugs it open.

There’s nothing but a solid stone wall behind the door.

Jordon steps back, laughing a little hysterically. He can’t get out.

He storms away, tangling his hands in his hair, and bounces on his feet. He turns back to the door, looks at the mirror, back again, wishing that the wall would disappear and he could use the door.

But the wall remains.

He whines and turns to his reflection, lip quivering. He stares at himself, a bitter loathing welling up in his heart. He’s pathetic.

The light bouncing around the walls pings off the mirror, and there’s a tiny shift across the glass.

Jordon blinks, pulled out of his self-hatred for a moment. The glass doesn’t move again, but Jordon is certain that it did. He walks slowly up to the mirror, reaching out with one hand and brushing his fingers against the glass.

It ripples beneath his fingers. The surface itself feels sticky and cold, thick. Jordon pulls his hand away, staring. The mirror stares back, once again still.

Jordon lays his palm flat on the surface of the mirror. It sticks to his palm, and when he presses on it he can feel it squishing against his skin. 

He stares, pushes harder. It swallows his hand, and he shudders. It’s thick and gelatinous, clinging to his hand like putty. Really cold putty. He pushes harder. His forearm sinks in, then his upper arm. 

He looks at the door and its stone wall. Looks at the mirror. Looks at the door. Looks at the mirror. The mirror has more give than the door.

He swallows hard. He needs to find Randi. This might be his best bet.

God, he’s having a weird fucking day.

Taking a deep breath and holding it in his lungs, he pushes himself into the mirror.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The first thing Dylan notices when he wakes after the fall, before he opens his eyes, is the sharp tug in his arm when he moves. It reminds him of the time he and his sister had run through a field of nothing but sticker burrs, how they’d spent the next hour cringing and whining as their mother had peeled the burrs away from their skin.

The sharp tug of ripping a burr off, the way it pulls the skin - that’s what this feels like. Except worse, like it’s tighter, embedded in, and it won’t come off at all.

He groans, head pounding, almost too exhausted to open his eyes after the crash from his adrenaline rush.

“You awake?” 

Dylan jumps, eyes snapping open. Lying beside him on a slick floor is the man who’d attacked him, now staring at him with a heavy expression.

Heart racing, Dylan pushes himself to his knees and punches the man in the face.

“Yeah, okay,” the man grunts, blinking. “I deserved that.”

Dylan tries to crawl away and immediately regrets his decision. He gasps at the sharp pain in his arm. He turns with bared teeth, because if this motherfucker’s stabbed him or something -

He stops.

His arm is fused to the man’s.

The skin of their forearms is sealed together, almost to the point of being merged, and Dylan’s first thought is, _Oh, God. That’s worse than a burr._

“Skin,” Dylan says. He thinks it gets the point across.

“Yep,” the man says. He doesn’t seem surprised. “It’ll unfuse once we’re out of here. But we’re probably gonna be stuck to each other for a while.”

Dylan stares at the man. The man stares back.

“I’m George,” the man says. He moves to get to his feet.

Dylan scowls, the shock of the past few hours clearing from his head as he tosses aside the question of how they’re stuck together. The bigger question is who the fuck this guy thinks he is.

He jerks his arm back, and immediately shrieks.

George seizes Dylan’s arm, teeth bared. “Don’t fucking do that,” he says, voice low, threatening.

Dylan glares back. “Are you kidding me, dude?” he snaps. “You try to kill my fucking friends and you seriously don’t expect me to do that?”

“Of course I expect it,” George hisses. “That doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you do it.” He shifts again. “Now come on. I know my way around.”

Dylan shakes his head, lips pulling back into a sneer. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me why you tried to kill my friends.”

“You don’t have a choice whether you’re with me or not,” George bites back. But then he sighs, visibly deflating. “But I didn’t want to kill your friends. I don’t get a choice in that.”

 _“No choice?”_ Dylan shouts. “Of course you get a choice!”

George shakes his head. “I don’t, actually. Not outside of here.” He looks around the empty, slippery room. “Even here, choices are an illusion,” he murmurs, eyes distant.

Dylan pauses, taking a moment to finally look around and wonder where they are. There’s a single corridor across from them, a dim glow coming from beyond. The room that they’re in seems to be made out of water-worn stone.

“...Where _is_ here, anyway?” he asks, guarded, watching George as the other man shifts and looks into the corridor.

“I call it The Place,” George says. “Not very creative, but…”

“... The Place?” 

“Call it another world, I guess,” George says. He looks down at Dylan, his face equally cautious. “We should get going. Staying in one spot here isn’t smart.” He pauses. “I can… _try_ to explain more while we move.”

Dylan grits his teeth. “Fine,” he mutters, watching George with narrowed eyes as they slowly rise to their feet. “But if you try anything, I’m going to fucking burn you alive.”

“Fair enough,” George says. He sighs. “Come on.”

Together, they carefully start towards the corridor.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel doesn’t know how many landings and hallways he passes. Each one seems darker and creepier than the next, so he pushes on in spite of how short his breath is coming, how sore his legs are. 

The staircase doesn’t seem to have an end. He’s sure that he’s been climbing for at least twenty minutes, but each time he cranes his neck to check and see how much more there is, he can see that the stairs just keep going up and up and up.

His legs give out at some point. He’s on one landing, a darkened hallway stretching out from the top of the stairs he’s just finished climbing. He turns to the next set of stairs, hoping that the very top of all these staircases will feel safer than these hallways. He’s breathing hard, his legs burning almost worse than his arm, his muscles strained to the point he feels like they’re gonna snap, his legs shaky and weak.

He places his foot on the next step, takes a deep breath, and pushes himself up.

His knee shudders, his foot slipping from the step as he crashes to the floor, falling flat on his ass and banging his head against the wall.

He groans and sprawls out on the landing, suppressing a whine as his head throbs in time with his wound. Jesus Christ, he’s having a bad day.

He pushes himself back up, looks at the stairs. Dread pools in his stomach. He doesn’t know how much more climbing he can take. He doesn’t know how he even made it this far anyway, considering how weak he already is.

He slowly gets to his feet, stumbling and groaning at a wave of nausea. He turns to look into the corridor. It’s not as dark as some of the others below were. Still, the carpet is gray, and he can’t see the end of it. 

Taking a deep breath, Jorel heads into the hallway. 

He trails down it with hesitant steps, his lip between his teeth. There aren’t any doors, just bare walls. He grows less and less sure of his decision with the more time that passes without an end in sight.

It’s been five minutes at least, probably more, and he’s about to just turn around and go back to the stairs because even if neither option is any good, at least the stairs don’t make him feel like someone’s hiding and waiting for him.

But that train of thought comes to an abrupt end when the hallway - out of nowhere, really - widens into an actual room. A big room with a hardwood floor. 

Blinking, Jorel steps over the threshold.

It’s a dead end.

There’s no door in sight, not even a single window or any kind of furniture. The only things in the room are three large paintings, one on each wall. Weird ones, too; the least bizarre one _would_ be the one that’s simply of a cat, except that the cat’s face is split into two colors, like the cat that had led him to the house, and he _really_ doesn’t like that. The next one is of a hunched figure walking down the street in the rain, a hood pulled over their head. 

The third one is of a woman’s face, red smeared across her chin and neck, a toothy grin plastered on her face.

Okay, fuck this.

Jorel spins around, intent on leaving, only to find that the entrance is no longer there.

There’s no sign of the doorway that should be there. It’s just a smooth, doorless wall.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny steps into the sterile white ICU of a hospital. 

He halts as the doors swing shut behind him, blinking at his surroundings. He takes in the sight of the nurses’ station, the resuscitation cart tucked away in a corner, the glass doors with curtains pushed to the side and big windows beyond them. There’s a sharp smell of cleaning supplies and hand sanitizer, boxes of latex gloves lined up on one wall.

He wouldn’t find anything amiss, really, except that it’s completely devoid of life. It’s empty and silent, not a single sign of any patient or employee. It seems like the only thing breathing or moving or making any noise here is Danny himself.

His face flushing with heat, Danny slowly begins to walk down the hall, tapping his thighs as his throat tightens. He darts fervent glances around. Hospitals aren’t supposed to be this empty. There’s _always_ a few people in every area of a hospital. Always. _Especially_ the ICU.

Swallowing, Danny leans over to peer into one of the rooms. Save for the usual hospital equipment, it’s empty. 

He continues on in the same manner for a bit, hesitantly peeking into every room with his body tense, braced for the possibility of something jumping out at him. All the rooms in this section are empty.

As Danny finishes his slow half-circle around the area, after peering into room 10, he reaches a sign fixed to the ceiling, its directory printed in big, blocky letters.

**ROOMS 11-20 ↑**

Swallowing, Danny continues forward, a knot in his stomach. He tenses further as he passes a closed door, a certainty in his mind that it’s going to fly open and something’s going to come out.

As he passes it without incident, he breathes out a sigh of relief, though his anxiety still doesn’t go down. 

He moves into the next area. His eyes fall on the nearest room, a square white sign hung to the side of the door with “11” in black lettering.

_Beep._

Danny jumps, pulse rocketing. He throws frantic glances around, heart pounding.

_Beep._

It’s the sound of a monitor.

Blinking, his head spinning as his panic slowly subsides, he listens closely to the noise, attempting to follow it to its origin. He moves hesitantly, pausing every time he hears it.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

He halts outside of room 19, peering inside.

The monitor’s screen is blank, but it still beeps.

Stomach and throat going tight and shaky, Danny is about to turn around and walk away when he notices something that wasn’t in any of the other rooms.

Hanging from the otherwise empty IV pole is a lanyard, a single name tag dangling from it. Blinking, an unwilling curiosity rising inside of him, he moves into the room and goes to inspect the name tag.

It looks like a nurse’s or a doctor’s, but the only remnants of the hospital’s name are a few chipped black lines, and the identifying picture has been scraped away completely. The name has eroded to the point that the only thing left of it is a worn “T”.

A memory flashes in his mind, and Danny releases the tag as his hands fly to his head, his insides going cold and twisted as his heart slams against his rib cage.

He can’t catch the memory, but its effects remain, and he thinks that maybe he’s crying.

He can’t catch his breath, the skin of his neck is shriveling, his heart squeezing and withering inside his chest, and oh _God_ he’s so afraid and it feels like _anguish_

He looks towards the hospital bed, remembers being a child and pulling his blankets over his head when he got scared at night, and it’s the only helpful thing Danny can think of.

Hands numb, a sour taste in his mouth, he leaps into the hospital bed and pulls the blanket over his head.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The gel suctions around Jordon, squeezing down his body as he slides through it, and then he’s facedown on the dirt, gasping for air once again.

He takes a moment to orient himself, lightheaded as he slowly rolls himself onto his back. The sound of trickling water bubbles gently in the background.

The ceiling above him is worn, raw stone, stalactites hanging down from it. He’s in a goddamn cave.

He pushes himself into a sitting position, feeling the dirt beneath his fingers, and looks up at the mirror embedded into the cave wall. It’s tarnished on this side, the “glass” pockmarked and uneven. Jordon turns to look behind him.

There’s a narrow, weak river carved into the floor of the cave, quietly running along, splashing onto the dirt with gentle movements. Jordon gets to his feet, watching the river for a moment before he looks up at the rest of the cave.

It seems like a straight shot. To the right of him is a stone wall, the river sliding through a small hole at the bottom of it, and of course Jordon can’t fit through that. To the left, however, the walls curve to the side, a simple bend, so that’s where he’ll go.

He starts down the dirt, taking the bend carefully, keeping an eye out for a sign of anything hostile or strange that might be waiting for him. Or for a sign of Randi.

He doesn’t know how long he walks down the dirt, but it must be a while. He realizes pretty quickly that this is a weird-ass cave, with absolutely no turns or hollows or other areas in sight.

Around the final bend is a dead-end, a curved stone wall halting him. The only signs of anything that isn’t this little cut-off are a few big holes in the walls.

He takes a long moment to absorb the sight in front of him.

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself, Jordon steps forward to investigate the holes. He hasn’t seen holes anywhere else in this weird fucking cave, and they’re pretty big, so it’s worth a look, right? The mirror certainly was.

He peers into one of the holes. He can see that it’s another dead end, with twigs laid at the very end like some kind of nest.

All of the other holes yield similar results; one that was really only a few inches deep, another that just had moss at the end, another dead-end with a pool inside.

Hoping desperately that the results of the last one will be better, he slowly crouches down to investigate the final hole - the one lowest to the ground.

His hopes are killed by the fact that the walls of the hole are covered in sticks and twigs. While they aren’t _jutting out,_ necessarily, they’re still in thick layers, still sharp and splintery.

Suppressing an anguished moan, Jordon peers beyond the sticks, because he really really _really_ doesn’t want to give up on Randi, and the hope ignites again in his chest when he sees something that _isn’t_ a dead end.

Beyond the layers of wood, there’s a soft orange glow.

Excitement flaring inside of him, his mind focused only on _get friend back,_ he takes hold of the sticks and drags himself inside.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel is stuck. _Literally_ stuck. In a room with no exit.

All he can really feel is a vague, _Oh my god. I’m gonna die._

 _Okay, Jorel,_ he thinks, trying to get his heart to stop racing because he’s so _tired_ of panicking. _Okay, I’m clever. Think like a -_

He scrambles to put the words together in his head, looking around the room as he wracks his brain. Maybe there’s a hidden door somewhere, or some sort of switch. A select few of the houses he’s robbed had hidden shit like that.

Oh. There it is.

_Think like a burglar._

Without hesitating, Jorel drops to his knees and begins to pry up the floorboards. There might be some kind of key, or a trapdoor, _something_ he can use to get out of here.

He carries on that way for a while, prying a floorboard up, putting it back down, and moving on to the next one. By the time he’s lifted the last one, only to find absolutely _nothing,_ he wants to scream, his insides boiling as his fists shake with the amount of anger in his body. He’s gonna kill someone.

“Are you fucking _kidding me?!_ ” he snarls, like the walls are actually gonna reply. He looks around the room again, desperate for _something,_ and his eyes fall on the painting of the cat. 

It’s more of a _think like you watch movies_ moment instead of a _think like a burglar_ moment because there hasn't been any time that a person he’s robbed has actually hidden something behind a painting, but…

He gets to his feet and stalks over to the cat painting, gripping it with both hands and throwing it to the floor. 

The wall behind it is smooth and solid.

Biting back another frustrated noise, Jorel moves to the painting of the woman. Tears it off the wall. Nothing.

He moves to the painting of the person walking down the street. Puts his hands on it.

A thread of uncertainty tugs at his heart. He pulls the painting off the wall anyway.

There’s a large hole behind it, big enough for Jorel to easily see another room through it.

A hysterical grin breaking out on his face, he squeezes his injured arm against his chest and pulls himself into the hole.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“You said you were gonna explain,” Dylan says as they maneuver themselves down the corridor. “So explain.”

George sighs. He isn’t quite sure where to start. Dylan is still glaring at him, eyes filled with venom, and it’s well-earned.

“This Place,” George starts. He stops for a second, pressing his lips together. He tries again. “It’s not our world.”

“So we’re in an alternate universe,” Dylan says flatly, though his tone is sharp with ridicule.

“Not really,” George says, refusing to get defensive at Dylan’s tone. He’s tired of fighting. “I guess the world is filled with magic, and most people are, too. There’s a lot of excess magic in the world, I guess from both an overproduction of it _and_ from the magic having no place to go when people die. From what I understand, this Place is basically formed from that excess magic, and there’s so much of it that it just formed into its own little world.” 

Dylan stares at him as they shuffle along. The malice is gone, replaced by confusion.

George sighs and continues. “Me and - well, I was trying to explore it with someone. Only problem is there are people with some really fuckin’ strong magic.” He stops in his tracks, wincing at the tug that comes when Dylan halts, too. He rubs at his own face. “And this Place likes people with strong magic. The stronger your magic, the more it bends to you. And apparently there’s a specific kind of magic it likes most, but I don’t know a lot about that stuff.”

Dylan’s still staring at him.

“I don’t know who,” George says, “but someone’s gotten a hold of this Place and is using and manipulating it. They’ve got some sort of plan and they needed me to hurt you guys because you’re all seriously powerful and it - well, it would disrupt something.”

Dylan is silent for a long moment. 

“Dude,” Dylan says, “I don’t know what to do with any of that.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” George says. 

“So,” Dylan says. His hostile tone is back. George deserves it. “You just went along with their plan to kill us.” 

George tenses, skin cold, remembering the pain of the loop, the entrapment, how he couldn’t escape, the threats to -

“No,” he says. His jaw is tight. “No, they’ve been doing some crazy shit.” He swallows. “A friend of mine has been trying to help me find some sort of tiebreaker, so The Place can’t easily detect me when I’m outside it, which would mean that that person couldn’t either. I don’t think the search is going well.” He winces. “And The Place was already affecting her, too, before all this, so she’s just putting herself through more hell.”

Dylan is silent again, his lips drawn tight, eyes heavy as he stares into the distance, processing this onslaught of information. “...When you said we’re all powerful,” Dylan says, “what did you mean?”

George shifts. They both hiss at the tug. “I don’t know how exactly, or what kind of magic you all have, but you’ve all got _something_ going on. And it’s very attuned.”

Dylan turns his eyes to George. “But you don’t know what.”

“I don’t know what,” George agrees.

Dylan bites his lip, looking away again. “So, uh…” His voice is quiet, small. “How do we get out of here?”

“You could make your way through all of its mazes,” George says. “It takes forever that way, but it can be done. Or you could go through one of its simulations. Those are faster, but that does hinge on whether or not you can handle them.” His throat tightens. His voice is soft when he says, “They can be very hard to handle.”

They spend a few minutes in mutual silence.

Dylan’s the one to break it. “What do we do now?”

“Well,” George says, looking ahead through the corridor. “We can try to find your friends.”

Dylan blinks. “Is that possible?”

“If you’ve got a basic understanding of what they feel like, yes. I understand what Danny and Jordon feel like.” Dylan doesn’t ask how George knows their names, or how he knows what they feel like, and George is content to let him make his own assumptions.

George looks down at their conjoined arms. “...Shall we?”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


In the space between “fantasy” and “reality”, Randi struggles.

She’s caught in between, a crushing grip around her body, each half of her being tugged in opposite directions. It’s painful and claustrophobic, and no matter how hard she tries she cannot break free.

She wriggles her legs, shifts her torso, but she remains stuck.

Shifting to either side doesn’t relieve any of the discomfort, because she’s supposed to be in both places but she’s also not supposed to be in either.

She groans, lets her head flop down, and is suddenly aware of the fact that even though she has a body right now, she also has no body at the same time. It’s an extremely uncomfortable feeling, like an itch that can’t be scratched.

 _Stop squirming,_ someone breathes into her ear, and it’s real but it’s fake.

“Hello?” she says, saying nothing at all.

_Can’t let you through. Can’t let Terrell bring his best Creation in. Just stay still for a while._

And then the voice is gone, and she doesn’t know if it was even there in the first place.

She struggles harder, groaning at the continued discomfort. She falls still again. She needs to find Jordon. She closes and opens her eyes, fake sweat speckling her forehead. Maybe she should just wait for him.

Each side curls tighter around her limbs. She inhales without breathing.

Maybe Jordon and the others will find each other.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel makes it through the hole without incident, planting his feet on the floor as he pushes out of it.

He’s in a big hallway now, the walls lined with doors, and he can’t help how he laughs with relief.

He stumbles forward, taking a moment to lean against the wall as another wave of heat washes over him.

In that moment, that one little moment, there’s a muffled shout near his ear. 

He flinches back, eyes going round as he scans the area. Nothing.

Another shout comes from beside him, where he was just leaning. 

He turns his head, eyes wide as he stares at the wall.

Another noise. A bang.

 _Holy shit,_ he thinks, because someone’s _in the fucking wall._

He thinks of the man tearing through the wall in that pseudo-dream.

If someone’s in the wall, in this weird fucking place… that sounds dangerous.

Another shout, more desperate this time.

 _Shit,_ he thinks, because now he feels obligated to help.

Slowly, he places a hand on the wall. Pushes on it. It crunches slightly beneath his fingers, the surface wrinkling.

He blinks, presses harder. The wall tears open beneath his fingers, a large gap ripping its way up the wall. He stares, mouth open.

Through the rip, he sees a tree. Green grass. A clearing. He leans forward. What the fuck is happening? 

He gasps as a strong pair of arms reaches through the gap, pulling him inside. 

He shrieks as he’s thrown to the grass. He rolls onto his back and crawls away, kicking his legs out frantically.

There’s a woman standing in front of him, a tight black tank top pressing around her chest, a pair of purple shorts high on her thighs, her feet boasting a pair of sneakers.

He turns his eyes to her face, gaping. Her hair is messy and blonde, shoulder-length. There’s sloppy eyeliner pencilled around her brown eyes. She crosses her arms, grinning at him. Her lips are glossy. 

“Hi,” she says. She clicks her mouth, snapping gum between her teeth.

He just stares at her, his brain too tired to even try being afraid or surprised. Shocked, sure. Not surprised.

“Name’s Arina,” she says, pushing her hair out of her face. “Someone left me here for ya. Got time to chat?”


	9. Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to play a game.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: brief violence at the end, continuation of mild body horror from last chapter, very brief scene of someone being intoxicated

Jorel gapes up at her, trying and failing to put any words together. 

Finally, he says, “I - what.” 

He has such a way with words.

Arina stares back down at him, unimpressed. “I said: I’m Arina, you have time to chat?”

“I got that part,” Jorel says quietly, lips numb.

She sighs, gestures towards a log sitting in the grass. Jorel can’t remember it being there before. “You wanna sit?”

Slowly, Jorel eases himself up and onto his feet, stumbling towards the log. He sits with a soft  _ thunk. _

Arina plops down beside him, stretching her legs out in front of her as she props herself up on her hands. 

She looks at him. He looks back.

She snaps her gum. “So,” she says, “I’m Arina.”

“You’ve said that three times.” He pauses. “Uh… Jorel,” he says, faint. 

“I know,” she says, looking at him like he’s dumb. “This little green spot is for you.”

He blinks. Looks around the clearing. He realizes now that there’s no sky above, just a leaf-covered ceiling and leaf-covered walls. Still, it’s a very big area.

He frowns at her. “For me.”

Arina bobs her head. “Yup.” She snaps her gum. “Guess I should explain, huh?” She crosses her legs, tugging at her hair. She bites her lip, huffing. “‘Cept you’re not gonna understand a word I’m saying if you don’t have general context…” She groans, rubbing at her face with one hand. “This is gonna take forever.” She adjusts herself, splaying her hand across her thigh. “Right, so, let me tell you about something that some people call The Place.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“So,” Dylan says, looking around, “how do you know when you’re on the right track? Like how do you know when you’re feeling someone?”

“When you’re first learning to track people - feel them -, you feel it in your body when you’re on the right track,” George says, “and you get specific thoughts that just kind of pop up unwarranted. It might evolve and change over time, but you don’t need to worry about that right now. We’re just focusing on getting out of here .“

“Right,” Dylan says as he processes the words, brow furrowed. They walk on in silence for a bit. 

That subject slips from Dylan’s mind as it finally occurs to him to ask where they’re going when they reach a hallway with two ways to go - one way leads to an obvious dead end, the other into an unsettling darkness - and George maneuvers them away from the actual hall part to the dead end instead.

“Wha - buh - ach,” Dylan sputters, hurrying to grip their arms in an attempt to prevent any pulling. “Where the hell you goin’, dude? You can’t go that way.”

George makes a frustrated noise as he moves Dylan along. “That’s not how it works here. You have to go for the solutions that aren’t obvious. There’s a good chance we’d be in danger if we go the other way. This place is a mind game in and of itself.”

“But - ”

George halts. “Dylan.” He turns to Dylan, his face solemn. “I’ve been through this a million times. I know what I’m doing.”

Dylan bites his lip as he and George stop near the corner. “Okay,” he says, uncertain, watching George inspect the stone wall. 

“A-ha,” George mutters, taking hold of their arms in order to pull Dylan down as he crouches. Dylan watches with bated breath as George digs his fingers into the edge of the wall, peeling the stone away with a rip like it’s made of paper. Dylan’s jaw drops as George tears the wall open. The other side of the stone is simply peeling cardboard.

George and Dylan get to their feet, Dylan gaping as George finishes ripping the layer of the wall off, leaving a wide, human-sized hole with another, lighter hallway behind it.

Dylan stares, his fingers sparking at the overwhelm of it all. George steps through the hole without another word, moving Dylan with him.

As they step into the hall, Dylan puts a hand on George’s upper arm, prompting a raised brow from the other man. 

“I’m confused,” Dylan says.

George nods, and with a tired voice, says, “You’re lucky we aren’t in a simulation. Those are worse.” 

Without any further explanation, George starts down the hall, Dylan bumbling along after him.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel stays silent for a while as he processes her explanation of “the place” and the person who’s using it. He stares at the grass as it stirs, like there’s a breeze to push it along. Arina’s patient enough, snapping her gum and staring into the distance as she thinks of other things while she waits. 

He feels a little sick, a knot in his stomach, hot and tight. He wants to see his friends.

“So,” he finally says. Arina turns her attention back to him. “We’re in a world. Made of magic.”

“Yup,” she says. She snaps her gum.

“And you’re here… for what?”

“You,” she says. “See, Jorel, I was  _ made  _ in this Place. I’m made  _ of  _ this Place. And I’m here for you.”

He frowns. “I don’t get it.”

“Okay,” she says, “a few years back, someone you know found this Place and realized the amount of power that it held. They knew right away that it was dangerous and that anyone could be pulled into it. This person’s primary concern was… well, you. This person was concerned that you would be pulled in and would be in great danger if you were. Which, I mean, you  _ are  _ in great danger.” She pauses, giving him a second to process what she’s said.

Before he can respond, she continues. “So, essentially, this person that you know is pretty powerful. Since this was before the Big Bad Weirdo came along, this person was able to utilize The Place’s power and to bend a portion of it to their will without having it protest. So, basically, they made this area.” She waves her hand, gesturing around the clearing. “We call it the Safe Zone. This area is pretty much separate from the rest of The Place. Neither the Big Bad or The Place itself can do anything to you while you’re here. They can’t even detect you while you’re here. To them, you’ve basically vanished into thin air. It’s a little respite.” She looks at his arm. “It also cancels out any negative effects while you’re here. That’s why that wound don’t hurt right now.” Jorel blinks, looking down at his arm in realization.

“And to top it all off,” she continues, pointing to herself, “said person you know made  _ me.  _ I’m tied to this area, but since I’m made from The Place’s magic, I’m pretty much a part of The Place, too. I was made to protect this area and to guide you and anyone important to you to it. Unfortunately, since I’m still a part of The Place, I still have to play by its rules.” She makes a face. “I can slant things to be in favor of you getting here, but you still have to make the right choices yourself to get here. You could’ve just kept going when you heard me shouting, or you could’ve gone on a different landing, and you never would’ve gotten here.” She pauses again. “So, yeah. That’s it.”

Jorel stays silent for a long, long while.

At some point, he realizes that Arina has moved to lie on her stomach in the grass, dragging her finger through a patch of dirt as she traces patterns through it.

Jorel watches her for another moment before he finally speaks. “The person who made you and the Safe Zone,” he says. “Who are they?”

Arina presses her lips together, abandoning her drawing and pushing herself up into a sitting position. “They didn’t want me to tell you.”

Jorel frowns harder. “Why not?”

Arina shrugs, leaning back so she can look up at the leafy ceiling. “Dunno, man. They just didn’t.” 

“...But I know them?”

“Yup.”

He rubs at his face, brow furrowing as he tries to think. He’s known a lot of people throughout his life. 

“Don’t stress it, dude,” Arina says. 

“Right,” Jorel mutters. “Just don’t stress a parallel world made of magic that only two people know about and one of them refuses to identify themself while the other one is called ‘The Big Bad.’ Right. I won’t stress that at all.”

“George knows of it, too,” Arina says, fighting back all her instincts to kick this guy for whining. Jorel stares at her. “The guy who was just trying to kill you.”

“Oh, great, so only one of three people might not have bad intentions.” Jorel groans and rubs his face. “Perfect.”

Arina rolls her eyes. “Well, you and your friends know about it now, so -“

“My friends?” Jorel sits up, body tense with alarm. “My friends are here?”

“They’ll be alright, dude, relax.”

Jorel bites his lip, opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off. 

“As I was saying,” she says, oblivious to his attempts at argument, “since you and your friends know about it - and my creator  _ isn’t  _ bad, actually, thank you - it’s four against two. Five against two if my creator jumps in. Or… six against two, if George keeps goin’ the way he’s goin’.”

Jorel blinks. “What?”

“I’m just sayin’, man, sorry he tried to kill ya and all, but I think you’re gonna like him pretty soon.”

Jorel stares at her. “Right. Sure.”

They sit in silence for another moment.

“So what now?” Jorel asks, because he’s getting that empty feeling he gets sometimes and doing  _ something  _ is so much better than feeling empty.

“Well,” Arina says, sprawling across the grass on her back. “We could try to figure out where your friends might be and I could… I dunno, I could try to guide them here while you look for ‘em?”

Jorel blinks. “You mean, like, I leave the Safe Zone?”

“Yeah,” she says with a nod. 

He frowns. “How would I find them?”

“Everyone has a certain ‘feeling’ to them, and it’s detectable in The Place. Trust me, you’ll know when you’re on the right track.”

Jorel looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. He doesn’t want his arm to hurt again. 

No. They’re his friends. The first people in some time that really seem to care about him. He thinks of how quickly Dylan and Jordon had accepted him, how relaxed they are with him, how Danny had seemed so genuinely concerned for Jorel even though they didn’t know each other at all. How they’d rushed to help him when he thought that the wound was killing him, how they had been so upset by the state he was in that he can remember them freaking out even through the haze in his memory. How they’d tried to keep him safe and protect him from the man who went after them (George, apparently). 

He knows, suddenly, without a doubt, that he’d do anything to protect them, too. 

_ Shit.  _ He’s in too deep.

He takes a deep breath. His arm will hurt when he leaves, he’ll be sick again, but he can do it. He can push through it. He has to help them. 

“Okay,” he says, “let’s do it.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“Where are we going?” Dylan asks again as George pulls him down three more hidden corridors. There’s an odd tug in Dylan’s gut. Danny would probably get worried that he had a stomach ache, and his eyes would shimmer with emotion.

“I’m following Danny’s trail,” George says, and Dylan stumbles. 

“Bro, I was just thinking about Danny!” he announces, his eyes wide. “That’s so wild.”

George stares at him, his lip curling with suppressed amusement. “That means you’re sensing him, Dylan.”

“Ohhhhh,” Dylan breathes, bobbing his head. “Right, yeah, I forgot about that.” George chuckles a bit, shaking his head, and continues on. 

It’s when Dylan trips in the hallway, forcing them both to stop due to the fucking  _ painful _ skin-horror thing they’ve got going on, that they finally find a sign of the person tormenting them.

They’re both gripping their own respective arms, teeth grit, wheezing with pain, when Dylan turns his head to look away from the skin and catches sight of another person _. _

His breath stutters to a stop, his eyes going round, and George frowns, looking around for whatever made Dylan stall. The moment he sees it, he feels himself tense.

A figure slinks from the shadows. It’s a human, but still George finds he can’t discern a single thing about their appearance.

“Hi, George. Hi, Dylan,” they say, voice deep and masculine, and then George cannot breathe. He knows that voice. “Let's have a chat.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The sticks are incredibly painful. They catch and drag on Jordon’s skin, drawing needle-sharp points down his stomach and arms, and he’s pretty sure one or two of the scratches is bleeding. He almost screams when one of the sticks catches on the skin near his eye, and he has to take a moment to reach up with his stinging hands and slowly remove it, breath shivering as the sharp point passes less than an inch away from his eye.

Breathing hard, he begins to drag himself forward again, shooting paranoid glances around the little death trap of a tunnel, groaning when another sharp point digs into his stomach and tears his shirt.

This was a bad idea. 

He bites his lip.  _ No. _ He has to find Randi. He has to. No idea is bad if it means finding his friend.

He almost sobs with relief when he reaches the end of the tunnel. He pulls himself out, palms hitting the floor, and pushes himself up on his knees, wincing as his palms scream at him.

Panting, he turns his attention to the crowd suddenly storming around him, raving and dancing like they’re not part of some bizarre fucking fever dream, orange lights pulsing above them. He’s in a club.

His feeling of unreality growing, Jordon slowly gets to his feet. It’s a familiar club. 

“Jordon!”

Jordon turns slowly, heart climbing into his throat.

Standing there, swaying on her stilettos as she waves at him, body compressed in a tube dress and hot pink lipstick smeared across her mouth, is Chelsea, and this is the outing she’d invited him on for their shared twenty-first birthday.

He’s in a memory.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny doesn’t remember falling asleep, but considering the fact that he’s currently waking up in a hospital bed and does  _ not  _ have a concerned nurse hovering over him like before, he has to assume that he did fall asleep. He pushes himself up, looks to the IV pole. 

The name tag is gone.

Freezing, his skin crawling, he pushes himself out of the bed and nervously shuffles towards the pole. Blinks. Blinks again. The name tag does not return.

A pair of hands grabs him by the shoulders and whirls him around.

He stares, choking, into the glowing yellow eyes of a woman he almost recognizes.

She grins, all sharp teeth, her scrubs wrinkled, and although he doesn’t know her, he still knows in some distant part of himself that it isn’t the right voice that says, “Hi, Danny. Remember me?”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“You,” George says, body and voice shaking with the amount of anger overcoming him. 

“Who is this?” Dylan whispers.

“The one who made him try to kill you,” the figure answers, voice dismissive.

“Why are you here?” George growls, fist clenched at his side. The figure snorts.

“I’m releasing you,” it drawls. “From The Place. You've pissed me off, so, you know, if I’m going to drain these guys…” it gestures towards Dylan, who scowls, “...I might as well make it fun for me, yeah?”

“...Drain?” George asks, trying to shield Dylan as much as he can with their arms in the way. “You said they would… disrupt something.”

“They’re like gnats,” the figure says. “I wanted you to kill them first because they’d just get in my damn way. And look where we are now.” Its voice is full of scorn.

“So why are you here?” Dylan snaps, puffing out his chest and glaring.

Though indistinct, the figure grins.

“Well,” it says, “why don’t we get all the gang together first?”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel watches Arina as she retreats within herself, sitting silent and still on the log. It only takes her a moment to open her eyes again, a mix of triumph and alarm on her face.

“Did you find them?” Jorel asks, hope swelling in his chest.

“I found Dylan and George.” She cuts a look towards him, her brows furrowed. “Someone else is with them.”

Jorel stares, dread thickening in his throat. “Who?”

Arina’s lips press together. “Who do you think?”

_ “Shit,”  _ Jorel groans. “Shit, okay.”

“Come on,” Arina says, pushing off the log and marching towards one of the walls. Jorel jumps up and follows after her. Arina waves a hand, and the leaves part, a white door appearing beneath them. She twists the knob, pushes it open, turns back to Jorel.

“Be careful,” Arina says, voice uncertain. “Fingers crossed that I’m not failing my purpose.”

Jorel swallows. “Protecting me?”

“Protecting you,” Arina agrees as Jorel moves forward. She places a hand on his shoulder. “Go find your friends. Bring ‘em back if you can.”

He nods. “I will.”

She grins, though her eyes glint with what he can only assume is worry. “Tell ‘em I said hi.” She moves back. He looks at her.

“I hope I’m doing this right,” he says, lips numb with anxiety.

She shakes her head. “I hope so, too.” She steps towards him once again. “C’mon. You got this.” 

She pushes him through the door.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“Chelsea,” Jordon says. 

She beams at him, drunk off her ass. “‘Ey, Jordon,” she slurs, lifting the glass in her hand. “‘Ere’s t’ bein’ twen’y-one.” She throws the drink back, making a groggy, distressed noise as it slops down her neck and chest.

_ Watch your tits,  _ is what Jordon had said the first time. “Watch your tits,” he says now, because it doesn’t feel right to deviate from the memory. 

“‘M watchin’ em,” Chelsea slurs, and then stumbles away to the better friends she’d brought along.

The first time, Jordon had gotten wasted in a corner by himself while Randi sat with him. It still doesn’t feel right to deviate from the memory. But Randi is his top priority right now.

He turns, and he sees her.

Randi’s standing there, looking the same as she had when she was sitting with him while he drank out of sadness; her hair combed into a soft wave, wearing a short blue dress covered with flowers. 

“Randi?” He says uncertainly, relief flaring inside of him.

Randi lifts her head, and he meets her eyes.

Her orange eyes.

They’re supposed to be brown.

His breath wheezes out. Jordon shakes his head slowly. “You’re not Randi,” he whispers, heart pounding.

Not-Randi grins, her teeth razor-sharp. “Maybe not.” Her voice is almost the same as Randi’s, but it’s flat, devoid of life, all the bounce and vigor of the actual Randi’s voice drained from it, like her voice is a water balloon and someone’s poked a hole in it. Not-Randi moves towards him. He backs away. “Say, Jordon,” she says, still grinning despite the dullness of her voice, “let’s have a chat.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny stares, eyes round. “Who - I don’t - who are you?” He tries to back away. The woman tightens her grip.

The woman chuckles, digging her fingers into his shoulders. “Awww, you don’t remember her, then? How disappointing.”

He puts his hands on her shoulders, trying to push her away. “Who are you talking about?”

She growls when he tries to push her, slaps his hands away. “Someone  _ very  _ important to you. It’s a shame you don’t remember her. I put so much work into this form.” She juts her lip out, pouting. 

Danny shakes himself, dislodging her hands. Her face scrunches and twists with anger. “How about I talk to the real person instead?” Danny asks, his jaw setting as he backs away. He’s too exhausted for this coyness. “I want to talk to the real person.”

The woman bares her teeth. “Why don’t you  _ find her,  _ then?” She takes a long step forward and grips his shoulders again, her mouth twisting into more of a grimace than a smile. “You fucking  _ coward,  _ Danny. You pathetic bitch.”

Danny blinks, taken aback. He pushes her away once more. She snarls. “What’s your  _ problem?”  _ he snaps, anxiety thrumming through his blood.

“You come into  _ my  _ fucking world and you get in  _ my _ fucking way and you’re too pathetic to even fight back?” She reaches out and grabs his shirt, pulling him in. “Fucking  _ punk.  _ You’re so weak. Can’t even stop your own girlfriend from - ”

Danny pushes her frantically, panic flaring in his veins, his throat squeezing, heart fluttering. “Shut up! Shut the fuck - how do you know about - I - ”

The woman bares her teeth in another grimace-smile, pushes him towards the wall. It’s then that he catches sight of the name tag pinned to her chest.

He needs to know who this is.

He takes hold of the tag, tearing it from her scrubs as she throws him into the wall.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Dylan gasps as the wall to their left shatters open, a person flying through and hitting the ground hard. 

Dylan coughs, eyes stinging and throat burning as the dust from the wall whirls around them. He hacks, peering through the storm at the person on the floor. Danny’s shocked, pained face peers back at him.

Dylan and George make a break for him, shouting as their skin tugs, sharp pain cutting through them.

Still, they hobble together towards where Danny lies crumpled on the floor, throwing glances towards the figure that’s standing stock-still as the dust settles.

“Three out of five,” the figure says easily, a deep laugh rumbling from it. “This is kinda fun.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon backs away, his fists tense at his side. “You’re not Randi,” he says again.

Not-Randi chuckles at that, the noise ringing off the walls in the silence, and it’s then that Jordon realizes that there’s no noise left in the club. He looks around. 

The crowd is formless and faceless, just black blobs standing silently, and though they have no faces, he can still feel them staring at him.

“What is this?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

Not-Randi just keeps grinning. “You’re useless, Jordon,” she says, voice so so  _ hollow.  _ “You’ll always be useless.”

“Randi would never say that,” Jordon says, voice shaking. He  _ knows  _ this isn’t the actual Randi, and he  _ knows  _ he really is useless, but seeing it come from something that looks like her is more painful than he ever thought it would be. “She would  _ never  _ tell me I’m useless.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Not-Randi asks. “How sad it is that you need her to lie to you.”

“She wouldn’t lie to me,” he insists, though when it comes to his self-worth, he knows she probably would. 

Not-Randi shakes her head. “Don’t you understand? The talisman will never work. Not even your father could make someone love you.”

Jordon’s body goes cold. He stops breathing. “How - wha - how… how do you know about that?” His chest is starting to burn.

“Funny,” Not-Randi says, in her horribly unamused voice, “Danny asked the same thing.”

Alarm shooting through Jordon, he opens his mouth to ask what the fuck she’s talking about Danny for.

Not-Randi takes a step forward and seizes him by the neck, pushing him back. Jordon stumbles, grabbing her wrists.

“The fuck - ” he sputters. Not-Randi leans in close to his face, the grin gone, her eyes narrowed. She lightly squeezes his throat. “What do you want from me?” he chokes out.

The grin returns. “I want to play a game,” she purrs, and her voice is completely different now. She pushes him.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny, coughing, flinches at the sound of something breaking, the name tag gripped tight in his shaking fist. George and Dylan move to shield him, still wheezing and clearing their throats.

Through a large, fresh break in the wall, a person falls.

They crumple to the floor, their hat knocked off their head, and Dylan’s throat seizes when he spots the “CS” painted on the front.

“Jordon!” he shouts, and Jordon pushes himself to his knees, eyes wide, turning his gaze to them, and then to the figure.

“What are you doing?” George growls at the figure, wishing desperately that his arm wasn’t fused to Dylan’s so he could beat the shit out of this guy.

“I’ll explain when the other one gets here,” the figure says, dismissive, and then chuckles. “And would you look at that, he’s already on his way.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel races down each hall, his shoes pounding against the floor as he runs and jumps, silently thanking Arina for the visible markings around where the walls can be torn. He’s breathing hard, his skin hot and flushed, his head light and spinning, but he can’t stop now.

He’s on the right track. He can feel it tugging in his gut, pulling him towards them, his mind filtering through hazy, distant images; butterflies on his skin, in his hair, tickling his face, tugging at the threads of joy strung around his heart; sunlight filtering through the blinds, highlighting someone’s smile in a golden glow, warming everything it touches; smoking weed, a lazy buzz running over your mind, delightfully calm as your friends laugh and chatter around you; a bottle of Jack Daniels spilling down your throat, warming your stomach, a sad but still pleasant sort of companionship as imaginary arms hold you tight.

He’s almost there, whirling around the corner, and then he loses his footing, slamming into the floor as he slides along it, gasping.

“Now,” says a new voice, “the gang’s all here.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“What do you want?!” George shouts at the figure as Jorel slides into view. 

“I’m letting you go,” the figure says. “It’s more fun when we have a big playing ground, you know? When I keep you guessing.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jordon spits as he crawls over to where Jorel lies dazed.

“Look,” the figure says, and now its voice is hard. Something slides up George’s arm. He grits his teeth, doesn’t look away from the figure. “You’ve all gotten yourselves into this mess.” Something slides up Dylan’s own arm. He turns wide eyes on a tendril of darkness worming its way across his skin. “Everything would’ve been just fine if you’d just lived your lives and let Georgie here pick you off silently.” Something wraps around Jordon’s throat. He freezes, breath catching. “But no.” Danny gasps as something tugs at his ankle, turns to see something that might be a hand pulling on him. He shouts and kicks out. “You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” Something slides beneath Jorel’s hoodie, wraps around his wound.

The figure continues. “I’ve marked every single one of you now and you’re  _ never  _ gonna have peace unless you fucking kill me.” The tendrils around George and Dylan’s free arms  _ pull,  _ and they scream as they’re ripped apart, their skin tearing off together. “Oh, don’t worry, wounds don’t follow you out of here,” the figure coos. Jordon chokes as the thing around his throat bears down, strangling him. “You can’t kill me, though, of course.” Danny’s ankle breaks in two, white-hot pain shooting up his leg, and he cries out. “I’m just looking for a good time, my friends.” Jorel shrieks, biting through his tongue as the tendril pulls, tearing his wound apart. “I’ll let you go this time. Call it a hunt, yeah?”

“Come on,” the figure continues with a purr, laughing as it throws them all, still panicked and in pain, out of The Place. “Let’s play a game.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Randi feels hands grip her face.  _ Alright,  _ whispers the voice.  _ Time to go. _

The holds on her body are released, and she tumbles down, down, down.

Jordon’s mind brushes against her.  _ “Jordon!”  _ she cries, lashing out wildly, gripping onto his mind and pulling herself in, returning home as they fall together.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


As Jorel falls back to the earth, as his wound returns to its slightly better state, something jars loose inside of him, freeing a distant part of himself, letting it flood his body and his mind. His power awakens.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


As Danny falls back to the earth, as the broken pieces of the bone seal back together, a single name appears across the tag, and for a brief half-second, he remembers what it was like to die. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


As Randi jumps back into Jordon’s head, as the grip around Jordon’s throat disappears, as they fall back to the earth, they click back together once again, and Randi feels a rush of something new. Something impending.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


As George falls back to the earth, as the skin of his arm heals, something loosens and snaps, and he knows that he’s reached the point of no return.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


As Dylan falls back to the earth, as his torn skin mends, he  _ feels. _

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


And somewhere in the heat of the moment, The Place and the figure have made a mistake, opened a doorway that they didn’t mean to open, loosened an area that they didn’t want to loosen.

As the bars fall away, as the little veil thins and spreads open, Asia slips through and tumbles back to the earth.

She lies in the dirt, panting, and pushes her stinging body up, urgency ringing inside, her newfound knowledge flooding every corner of her brain. She sets her jaw, determined, as she drags herself to her feet. 

She needs to find George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this guy just wants free entertainment and by golly is he going to get it. also i love writing hu fic bc they’re literally a walking found family trope and so it makes sense for them to adopt each other instantly and id die for that
> 
> ALSO I just want to explain real quick: the “feeling/sensing/tracking” people part manifests differently for everyone! Dylan, for example, thinks of certain aspects of their personality/certain social situations/things that hint at their powers, whereas Jorel receives images of things that are kinda an essential part of them/things that give them life. That’s why Jorel’s was aesthetic but Dylan wasn’t. They all have different forms of “feeling” people.


	10. A Brief Moment of Recuperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She throws a look up at the darkened sky. It must be at least 8pm by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: brief talk/description of an infected wound
> 
> today on I Update This Way Too Much. gonna try to crank back on the frequency just a little bit after this chapter bc the next one is already halfway finished and dbfbdbdbb 
> 
> also my google searches did not yield any results for clarity health center. any resemblance to a real location is entirely coincidental

Dylan  _ feels. _

He feels, it hurts, and he’s out of control.

The moment that Dylan hits the dirt outside of Jorel’s studio, it surges through him, pushing out past his skin and through his pores. His hands glow with it, the skin of his palms stinging and wrinkling, and he feels his head going lighter and lighter as it swirls and rips through the air around him, buzzing with electrical charge. He grits his teeth, tears running down his face, his body shaking as his own magic pummels and bruises and burns him, slashing across his skin with violent, angry electricity. The shard sears against his thigh.

It’s so bright he has to squint his eyes. Fuck fuck fuck it hurts.

His heart is racing, his hair standing up, his scalp tingling, his body aching as hot, purple light storms around him. It splinters a tree, and Dylan cries. He’s terrified, he’s angry, he’s so so scared, he wants to fucking kill something, it’s so overwhelming and his blood is white-hot in his veins and he can’t breathe but he needs to calm down he needs to calm down because otherwise he’ll be screaming and then  _ his sister is screaming  _ and

_ “DYLAN!”  _ someone roars, and Dylan tries to pull it in, but it keeps slipping from his grasp, lashing back out, and he almost wants to give up, let it destroy what it wants to.

The purple energy parts, a large man pushing himself through.

George stands in the midst of the storm, teeth bared, his arms held up protectively, a soft blue outline to his form. He swats a stray bolt of magic away, hissing as it burns his skin, licking against his arm like the heat of an oven. He scowls, lips setting into a firm, determined line as he pushes forward towards Dylan. He isn’t sure how long he can maintain the Protection. He just needs it long enough to get to Dylan.

The magic swirls around his head, knocking against it and jarring his neck. He grunts as the magic lashes at his back like a whip, almost cutting through his shirt. 

Dylan is crumpled on the ground, holding his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with emotion. His hair is burst up with static, sticking out at odd angles. George assumes some of the shaking is effort, as he can feel the magic tugging back every few seconds, like Dylan is trying to reign it in.

George pushes on towards him, wincing at a burst of pain in his side. He drops to the ground beside Dylan, reaching out to grab onto Dylan, pulling him into his arms. Dylan struggles against it, and George winces when Dylan’s skin sparks, burning George. Christ, he gets less burns from his narrow fucking toaster oven.

Dylan elbows him, his body seized in panic, and George grunts.

“Sorry about this,” George mutters, as the Protection begins to thin and fade away. 

He drives his fist into Dylan’s temple, knocking him out.

Dylan goes limp, the magic immediately beginning to dissolve into the air, still charged with static and still there but overall inactive. The last of it singes against George’s arm, like a sunburn simmering on his skin.

He sighs with relief, looking down at Dylan’s limp body cradled in his arms. A moment passes, and George shakes him lightly. Dylan stirs, eyes slowly blinking open, making a pained noise.

“Wha -” Dylan mumbles, turning his neck to look up at George as George releases him.

George pats Dylan’s back, doing his best to reassure him. “You good?”

“Um,” Dylan slurs. “Feel like I had a heart attack.” He pushes himself away from George, sitting up slowly. He grunts, grasping his head. “Shit, m’ head hurts.”

George winces. “Yeah, uh, that was my bad.”

Dylan blinks up at him, groggy and exhausted. His eyes go wide and he scrambles to his feet, groaning at the subsequent sharp bolt of pain in his head. “The others!”

George reaches a hand out to stop him from running. Dylan glares at him. “Take it slow, Dylan. We’ll find them.”

“We need to start  _ looking  _ first,” Dylan snaps, his hands sparking.

“We’re gonna look now,” George says. “But you have to move slow. I hit you hard and you’re gonna be off-kilter. Come on. Let’s go look.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“Jordon?”

Jordon’s eyes snap open, relief flooding his chest at the sight of Randi’s face. Her actual face. Brown-eyed and all. 

“Randi,” he gasps as she wraps her arms tight around him, squeezing, his heart pounding against his rib cage. “Oh my God, I thought she’d replaced you.”

“Huh?” Randi leans back, her glasses knocked askew, hair falling into her face. Her brow is furrowed. “Who?”

“Randi,” Jordon says, slightly strained as he fights back tears. It’s okay. It’s okay, it wasn’t real. “I, uh.” He forces a laugh. “I have a story for you.”

“Jordon!” someone calls. Randi blinks, turning her attention away from Jordon and further into the woods. There’s a rustle of bushes, the sound of a stick cracking. Jordon reaches out to grab Randi’s wrist, and just barely gets a grip. Randi gives him a kind look, warm and reassuring. Jordon takes a deep breath, anxiety crawling up his back.

“Jordon!” the voice calls again, and then the bushes part as Dylan pushes through, his face going light with relief as he spots Jordon. There’s a bruise forming on his face, another one on his hand. “Homie!” He rushes forward, Randi scooting back as Dylan drops down beside Jordon and hugs him.

Jordon blinks, his skin going tight and crawly, and there’s a feeling in his bones like he’s just gotten to eat after starving. Being touched by a real person is still strange. 

The large man comes through the bushes behind Dylan. Jordon’s breath stops.

“You,” he says, knocking Dylan off him as he scrambles to his feet. He glares at the man, face wrinkled with it. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

The man scowls back. “I didn’t kill you in The Place and I’m not gonna kill you now. Calm down.”

_ “Calm down?”  _ Jordon spits, puffing up. “You -”

“Hey,” Dylan says, taking hold of Jordon’s arm. “It’s okay, dude.” Jordon turns to look at him, his mouth tense. Dylan’s eyes are red and, barely-visible tear tracks marking his face. There’s a small cut on his chin. Jordon frowns. “George is cool now, homie,” Dylan says, throwing a glance at George. “Mostly, I think.”

George crosses his arms, his lips pursed. 

Jordon looks between Dylan and George, brow furrowed. “This guy was trying to kill us,” he says, staring at Dylan.

“I know. I was talking to him while we were in there. There’s a lot of shit we need to explain.”

“We need to find Danny and Jorel first,” George says. Randi sidles up to him, standing near him with her own lips pursed. George’s eyes slide off of Jordon and to the side, landing near where Randi stands. She and Jordon stare at him.

“See something interesting?” Jordon snaps, skin buzzing with alarm. George’s eyes snap back to him.

“No,” George says. “I just feel something.”

Randi looks back at Jordon with wide eyes. He doesn’t meet her gaze, worried that any look towards her will give something away. 

“Come on,” Dylan says, interrupting Jordon’s worry as he grabs Jordon’s wrist and drags him towards the entrance of the woods. “We needa find the others.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The first thing Danny does when he regains awareness of his surroundings - while Louie is frantically licking at his face - is panic, shove the name tag into his pocket, and push himself to his feet, racing back towards where he dropped Jorel. His veins surge with fear. Louie darts after him. His body is remembering things he doesn’t want to remember, faint points of blunt pain throbbing all over his body. He refuses to think about it. He just needs to find Jorel. He needs to make sure he’s survived whatever  _ that _ was.

He spots him quickly, the black of Jorel’s hoodie stark against the green grass, and Danny could almost scream with relief. He hurries towards Jorel, dropping to his knees and taking hold of him. Louie slides to a stop beside him, snuffing at Danny’s clothes and licking his arm. Danny gives him a distracted pat. “Jorel!”

Jorel stares blearily up at him, haggard, his skin pale and sickly. Danny takes hold of Jorel’s sleeve, looking to the other man for permission. Jorel’s just staring at the grass, his eyes visibly heavy, his breath slow. He does move his eyes slowly towards Danny, but he doesn’t seem to register what’s happening or what Danny said. His eyes fall back to the grass.

Danny bites his lip and rolls Jorel’s sleeve up. The wound is carefully wrapped, but it still stinks through the bandages anyway, in a really stomach-turning, nauseating way. Danny tries not to gag. He looks towards Jorel’s face, anxiety tugging at his heart. Jorel is feeling fuzzy, distant and dissociated, and Danny has to pull himself away before it fogs up his mind, too. He looks back towards the wound.

He has to get him to the doctor. 

Danny pushes himself to his feet, leaning down to wrap his arms around Jorel and attempt to pull him up to his own feet. It’s shockingly easy; Jorel is very light. Danny  _ really _ hopes this guy has  _ something  _ to eat.

“Danny!” Danny almost drops Jorel again as he turns his head to look back. Dylan and Jordon are stumbling towards him, the large man in tow.

“Is he okay?!” Jordon shouts, almost melting with relief when he sees Jorel hanging from Danny’s arms.

Danny waits until they’re closer to tune in. Jordon is disoriented and afraid, a twingy feeling like he could be pushed to start crying at any second. Exhaustion overlaps all of Dylan’s emotions, and it’s most prominent, but there’s fear, anger, hurt, distress buzzing in the background, ready to push to the surface. There’s a faint note of relief.

Danny tries his best to connect to them and expand the relief in Dylan, push some of it into Jordon’s emotions, too. He looks to the large man. 

His feelings are mostly blocked off from Danny, but there’s a faint stream of guilt, and Danny thinks he can let the man stew in it for just a bit longer. He  _ did  _ try to kill them.

But he’s not trying to kill them now. He didn’t even majorly hurt anyone. Which is more than can be said for 

_ Don’t fucking think about it. _

It doesn’t matter right now anyway. “We need to get Jorel to the ER,” he says, trying to stop his voice from shaking.

“Let’s get him in your car,” Dylan says. He looks towards the large man. “Can you get him, George?” So that’s his name.

George nods, moving towards Danny. Danny hesitates, reaching for the emotions again. George is still blocked off from him, but what  _ is _ there doesn’t suggest bad intentions. 

Danny passes Jorel over to George, who easily slings him over his shoulder. Jorel groans, but doesn’t protest. Danny scoops Louie up in his arms, turning and striding back towards the studio, heading inside to move for the front door.

Dylan takes a few long strides to catch up enough to walk side by side with him. “You okay, dude? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” Danny says as he bursts through the front door, making a beeline for his car. He just needs to get Jorel to the ER. Dylan frowns, but doesn’t argue as Danny moves to his car.

He pulls open the back door, allowing George to carefully slide Jorel in. Dylan climbs in on the other side, and he and George carefully position Jorel in the middle so he can lean on Dylan’s shoulder. Jordon climbs in after Jorel, taking up the seat on his other side. They’ll keep him supported. Jordon throws another nasty look George’s way as Danny plops Louie into his lap.

George gets into the passenger’s seat. Danny, now in the driver’s seat, stares at him for a moment before switching the car on. He pulls away from the studio.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Asia halts her trek only to stop at a post office. She pulls a spare notecard from her pocket and scratches out a quick letter. She still has some money on her for first-class. She just needs them to know, even before she gets there. They should be prepared. She and George have snuck up on each other too many times.

She closes her eyes, reaching for the location.  _ Clarity Health Center. Room 203.  _ She scribbles it down on the envelope.

She posts the letter. The employee says nothing about her dirt-streaked face. She leaves, returning to the night, and continues her trek. Her feet ache and her eyes burn with exhaustion, but she has to keep going. They have to fight this together.

She throws a look up at the darkened sky. It must be at least 8pm by now. She got to the post office just in time.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


It’s not a long drive, a fact that Danny seems equally relieved and frustrated about. The night sky whips past them as he drives, and he finds that he can’t remember what time it was before…  _ that _ happened.

Everyone’s concern comes when Danny parks. He sits there for a long moment, taking slow, controlled breaths as he grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. George watches Danny from the corner of his eye while Jordon and Dylan exchange a look and then stare at him. 

“You good, dude?” Jordon asks.

Danny nods sharply. “Yeah, sorry. I just don’t like emergency rooms.” He unbuckles and throws the door open, sliding out without another word. The others follow. Danny hurriedly fills Louie’s travel water bowl and grabs a little can of food for him before cracking the window open and heading for the emergency entrance.

George takes Jorel from a wary Jordon, scooping him up bridal style this time. They walk together into the emergency room. 

The nurse looks up from her spot at the desk, her eyes wide as she abandons her papers and rushes over to them.

“What’s happening here?” she barks.

“Infected wound,” Jordon says. “Like, a really,  _ really  _ bad one.”

“He’s sick,” Danny says, “and, uh - unresponsive. And the wound looked really severe.”

“Where did the wound come from?” 

“We don’t know,” Dylan says.

“Has he received medical attention?”

Jordon and Dylan exchange a look. “No,” Jordon says slowly, “he said no doctors. He said it wasn’t that bad.” George makes a disgruntled noise.

The nurse’s lips purse. “What symptoms did you notice?”

“We  _ saw _ the wound,” Jordon says. “It looked kinda ripped. Really bloody. Swollen. Some kinda pus coming out of it.” He pauses, stomach turning. The others look a little sick, too. “Smells horrible, too.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed the smell,” the nurse notes. She doesn’t seem pleased about it. She reaches out, placing a hand on Jorel’s sweat-slicked forehead. “Name,” she barks.

“Jorel,” Jordon says, “we don’t know his last -”

“Jorel Decker,” George interrupts, cutting him off. Jordon blinks at him. 

“Mr. Decker?” the nurse says, leaning in and taking hold of his wrist, patting him on the chest. “Mr. Decker? Jorel?” 

Jorel’s eyes open slowly, sliding towards the nurse even slower. 

“Okay,” the nurse says, “responding to verbal stimulus. Wait here a second while I get the doctor.”

She hurries off, leaving the guys huddled protectively around George and the man he’s carrying.

Before they know it, there’s a little group coming to whisk Jorel away, hurriedly carrying him out of sight.

The guys give the nurse their names.

Then there’s nothing left to do but wait.

As they move into the empty waiting lounge, George slows his steps, throwing little glances around before he says, “Jordon. Danny.” 

They stop, Jordon turning to George with narrowed eyes while Danny looks on anxiously.

“Do you know where we just were? The surreal world?”

Danny and Jordon exchange an uncomfortable look. They both look exhausted. George can sympathize.

“No,” Jordon says.

George looks to Dylan. Dylan, shadows beneath his eyes, nods. George sighs. “Come on. Let me explain.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


It’s at least midnight by now. Sometime after George’s fairly terrifying explanation, Danny goes to fill a little paper cup up at the waiting area’s coffee machine, and Dylan gets up to go pace the hall. 

Left alone with only George, Jordon stares at him for a while. George stares back. It’s extremely uncomfortable. Randi, curled up on the couch beside Jordon, watches them.

Jordon pushes himself off the couch, leaving George by himself as he moves to join Dylan. Randi, taking another silent, fleeting observation of George, retreats into Jordon’s head as he goes to talk to Dylan.

Only, Jordon finds that Dylan isn’t pacing. He’s striding towards the exit.

“Hey!” Jordon shouts, wincing at the sharp look from the nurse at her desk. Dylan stops, turning back to him with tired eyes. Jordon rushes up to him. “Where are you going?”

“Leaving,” Dylan says. At Jordon’s confused stare, he says, “I don’t wanna talk about it, but I’ve been getting a little out of control lately. It’s not okay and I needa get out of here ‘fore I make things worse for y’all.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jordon stares at him. “Where’s this coming from, dude?”

“I thought I was past it, but I ain’t. So I’m going.” 

Jordon grabs Dylan’s wrist. “Uh, no the fuck you’re  _ not,  _ dude. Emo ass.” Dylan scowls. “Okay, I take that part back, but seriously, don’t be a fuckin’ martyr, dude. We’re in this together now and you just have to fuckin’ deal with it.”

Dylan sighs. He wishes he could be home right now, sleeping like the dead or getting high. “Dude -”

“You think Jorel’s gonna wake up and  _ not  _ wonder where you are?”

Dylan huffs. He considers it for a moment. On one hand, there was the storm of energy and emotion, how George had to knock him out just to stop it. On the other hand, if  _ he _ woke up only to find that his friend had ditched the group while he was suffering, he’d be pretty hurt.

He looks at Jordon. Jordon is attempting to mimic Danny’s puppy eyes.

Dylan can’t make these guys forget. They don’t deserve that.

He shifts his weight. “Okay,” he says. “You got a point there, dawg.”

Jordon grins, triumphant. “I know I do.”

Dylan sighs. “Just let me step outside real quick. I need some air.” Jordon’s brow furrows. “I ain’t leaving. I promise.” Jordon nods, steps away, and Dylan walks into the cool night air. 

It smooths itself across his face, wiping the anxious heat away from his skin, and he sighs in relief. It’d be even more enjoyable if he wasn’t at a hospital. Or if he had a joint.

The shard tingles against his thigh.

Dylan blinks, mind blissfully fuzzy for the moment, and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing the shard. He realizes then that it didn’t seem to have followed him into The Place.

He looks down at it. Inside the purple, streaks of red, orange, yellow, and blue are twined together. The shard sparks, just slightly.

The wind twists around Dylan’s hand, enveloping his arm, and then gives him a friendly nudge.

He blinks. There’s some indistinct color tracing through the air, and then it’s gone.

He isn’t sure whether to be alarmed or not.

Stuffing the shard into his pocket, Dylan hurries back inside.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


It’s almost 1am. Danny’s hands shake as he lifts his coffee cup to his mouth, and Jordon watches with a concerned eye. 

“You okay, dude?” Jordon asks. Unbeknownst to the others, Randi is pressed against his side, watching Danny. Dylan is sprawled next to George on the opposite couch, zoning in and out.

Danny nods, getting to his feet. “Y- yeah, um. I’m gonna go check on my dog again. Take him for a walk, maybe. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Jordon says uncertainly, hoping it’s a safe area. “Keep your phone on you.”

Danny nods, tossing back the last sip of his coffee and throwing it into the trash as he leaves. 

It’s silent for a long, long moment after Danny’s departure.

“Well,” Jordon says, “you guys wanna hear a story?”

They do. 

Jordon decides to tell them a story about his dad. Everyone loves his dad. So he tells them about how his dad once accidentally dropped fifteen hot fudge sundaes.

Somewhere during their conversation, Dylan falls asleep on George’s shoulder.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


By the time Danny returns to the waiting lounge, a nurse is heading over to their little group. 

George elbows Dylan gently, jarring him awake. Dylan blinks his eyes open with a yawn. 

The nurse halts in front of them, giving them all a reassuring smile.

“Hi,” she says. “We had to flush the wound, give him a round of antibiotics, and suture what would be safe to suture. We got him stable and more alert. We’re gonna keep him overnight and keep flushing the wound. We’ll finish the sutures tomorrow once the infection has lightened up a bit.”

Danny nods. He looks paler than before. “O - okay, thank you.”

“Of course,” the nurse says, giving them another smile before walking away.

“Wait,” Jordon says as it finally occurs to him. “How are we gonna pay for this? Jorel’s homeless and I’m pretty broke.”

“I’m paying,” Danny says. “My mother left me some money a while ago. It’ll be good to finally use it.”

The others stare at him.

“You’re a saint,” Jordon breathe.

Danny’s shoulders hunch. “Just - trying to help.”

“I guess we should get going,” George says.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Everyone decides to get together in the morning, discuss what to do about The Place and its person. George chooses to walk home, but Jordon and Dylan are okay with Danny dropping them off, and he even deletes their addresses where they can see.

Jordon and Randi both find it incredibly endearing.

Danny pulls into another parking lot for the night. There’s a missed call from the fire department on his phone, but he’s too tired to call them back. He just puts the seats down and crawls into the trunk with Louie pressed against him. 

As Danny’s body begins to ease him into sleep for the night, he remembers the name tag. Half-awake, he fishes the tag from his pocket, hands shaking with sleep and his eyes barely open. He takes a long moment to register the letters, desperately fighting back the sleep pulling at his brain. Regardless, he manages. 

He just needs to know.

The name tag reads  **THERESA M.**

Danny drops the name tag as he drifts into sleep.


	11. A Moment of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my _god_ ,” George chokes out through his cackles. “You’re so _dumb.”_

Jorel wakes up in a hospital room.

His first instinct is  _ I have no idea where I am time to panic  _ and then he sees Dylan sitting on a chair beside him, chewing on his own hair as he stares blankly ahead, a goofy smile on his face.

“...Dylan?” Jorel croaks.

Dylan flinches, releasing his hair as he turns to Jorel, his face sobering as he’s pulled from his thoughts. “Hey, homie, you’re up!” He throws a glance at the door. “Sorry the others ain’t here yet. It’s pretty early. They’re probably still sleeping. I just didn’t sleep much when I got home. They should be here soon, though.” He looks Jorel in the face, oblivious to how dazed Jorel is right now. “You know this hospital has no visiting hours? It’s pretty wack.”

Jorel stares at him, blinking. He looks down at the IV in his left arm. He feels a little cold, though his right arm is only a bit sore. “...What happened?”

“Well, when we got back from the - the - fucking - The Place, we took you to the emergency room ‘cause you were literally looking half-dead, dude. They got you loaded up on painkillers and antibiotics right now.”

Jorel blinks at him, a dull anxiety pounding beside his heart. He’s gonna have to drain all of the money from his last steal just for medical costs. “I can’t - I can’t afford -”

Dylan shakes his head. “Danny’s paying.”

Jorel stares. “He. What.”

“Danny’s paying.” Dylan shrugs. “Apparently his mama’s loaded.”

Jorel just gapes. “He’s… paying. For me.”

“For you,” Dylan agrees with a nod.

“But. We barely know each other?”

Dylan snorts. “Tell that to Danny, man. I don’t think he cares.”

“Oh.” Jorel falls silent.

Dylan squirms in his seat, coughing. “Right, so, you went into, uh… that weird world, right?”

Jorel looks at him. “Where you have to tear walls open?”

Dylan’s face brightens. He nods. “Yeah, exactly. Well, see… uh. George is better at explaining it than I am, but it’s called The Place and it’s -”

Jorel shakes his head, cutting Dylan off. “I know what it is. Arina told me.”

Dylan stares at Jorel, his brow furrowing. “Uh… who?”

Jorel blinks back at him. “I guess I have some explaining to do,” he says, and then something clicks. He looks at Dylan. “Who’s George?”

Dylan purses his lips, a tight, nervous smile growing on his face. “Okay, so, whatever you think, just… hear me out.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


On his way up to Jorel,  _ (room 203, Dylan had said),  _ Danny slows to a stop at the main desk on the first floor. The receptionist chirps out a greeting, smiling up at him.

“Hi,” Danny says, fingering the name tag in his pocket. “I was wondering if you had a nurse here? By the name of Theresa? Theresa M.”

“Theresa M.?” The receptionist hums, turning to tap at the keyboard. “Let me see…” They click and tap, mouthing words to themself as they do. “Hm. No Theresa M., I’m sorry. We have a Theresa S. and a Theresa L.” They give Danny an apologetic smile. 

“Okay,” Danny says, trying not to let his disappointment show. “Thank you anyway.”

“Of course,” the receptionist says. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Danny continues on to the elevator, an odd feeling tickling the back of his neck.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George really should’ve expected the empty paper cup that’s hurled at his face the second he walks through the door. 

The others are already there, all arranged around the bed, and Jorel is glaring at him, his skin pale and sickly but his eyes still full of life. Very angry life at that.

“You tried to kill us,” Jorel says. His voice is strained.

“I did,” George says, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”

“That’s - you -”

“Jay,” Dylan whines, “he’s cool now, I swear.”

_ “Jay?”  _ Jorel says, brow furrowed. 

“Dude, he tried to kill us. We go through some weird alternate dimension and all of a sudden he’s your best friend?” Jordon asks, staring at Dylan with wide eyes, looking very much like a scorned lover. George tries not to laugh at that thought. He’s supposed to be having a serious moment.

“Look, dawg,” Dylan says, “our arms were literally fused together and then we had the skin ripped off at the same time.” The others look quite disgusted by that, Jordon’s nose wrinkling as a nauseous expression takes over Jorel’s face. “Even if we ain’t best homes, we’re at least Shared Trauma Bros.” Dylan looks imploringly to Danny, where he sits near Jorel’s head. “Back me up, Danny.”

Danny blinks as everyone turns to stare at him. “I -” He clears his throat, looks at Jordon. “Dylan has a point.”

Jordon grumbles, but in the face of his Idealized Responsible Adult agreeing with Dylan, he yields. 

Danny looks to Jorel. 

Jorel just shakes his head. “Whatever,” he mutters. 

“I’m not here to be your friend, Jorel,” George says, “I just wanna discuss The Place with you. You don’t have to like me.” He pauses. “Speaking of, did Dylan explain The Place to you?”

Jorel stares at him for a long moment. He sighs. “No. I need to tell you about Arina.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


They sit in silence together for a while, processing Jorel’s new information. 

“A Safe Zone,” George says. He looks at Jorel. “... For you.”

“I wouldn’t believe it either,” Jorel mutters. “But that’s what she said.”

_ “That’s what she said?” _ Jordon breathes. Dylan elbows him. 

“Could the guy who fucked us up be responsible for the Safe Zone?” Dylan asks. “The… the fucking… Big Bad? Like could he have made it and then made Arina to trick us?”

“I don’t think he would want to do that,” George says. “I can’t see him going that far out of his way. He’s always been… overt. Maybe a little lazy.”

“Arina seemed very against him,” Jorel notes. 

“Yes, that too,” George says. “The guy enjoys stroking his ego too much. I learned that fast.”

Jordon, thoughts still dulled by the overwhelm of everything that’s happened, can only find it in him to react to one thing. “Just like I enjoy stroking my c -”

Dylan sputters. “Sensitive ears, Jordon!” he cries, gesturing to Danny.

“Oh, shit, my bad.”

Danny scowls. “I know the word c -”

_ “NO!”  _ Jordon shrieks. Dylan bobs his head in agreement. The others stare at them. George fights back a laugh. “ _ You _ are  _ not _ allowed to say that word.” Danny makes a disgruntled noise.

George, shoulders shaking with the effort it takes to hold his laughter down, says, “Can we focus?”

“Right. Right, yeah. Jay,” Dylan says, ignoring the way Jorel’s brow scrunches at the nickname, “any ideas ‘bout who might’ve made Arina?”

Jorel thinks for a moment. “I… don’t know. I’ve met lots of people, but I don’t think any of them would want to protect me.” Not anymore, at least. He doesn’t say that part.

Dylan bites his lip, eyes squinting as he tries to think. 

“So,” Jordon says, “we don’t know who the Big Bad is. We don’t know where Arina came from. We don’t know how to stop this guy. We don’t even know what he’s doing. What’s the plan, then?”

It’s silent. Everyone looks to George.

His face is tense, his eyes distant. “I don’t know,” he murmurs.

They sit in silence for a long, long moment.

There’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Jorel calls, coughing when his voice breaks. 

The door clicks open and a nurse shuffles in, an envelope gripped in her hand. 

“Hi, Mr. Decker,” she says. She throws disapproving glances at the guys crowded around his bed. “I heard shouting. Is everything okay?”

“Just got a little excited,” Jorel mumbles. 

“Mm. Alright.” She glances at them again. She holds the envelope out to Jorel. “This arrived for you a minute ago.”

Jorel frowns, taking the letter as the nurse shuffles back out. He stares down at it, brow furrowed. Across the front, in blue pen, is the address.

_ J. _

_ Clarity Health Center, Room 203 _

_ Inglewood, California 90302 _

Where the return address should be is a simple cursive  _ A _ . instead.

“Who’s it from, bro?” Jordon asks.

“I dunno,” Jorel says. “There’s no return address.”

He passes it to Danny, who looks down at it, tracing the letters with his thumb. “J.,” he murmurs, “A. That’s… ominous.”

“Well, open it,” George says, lips tense. His gut stirs. Looking at the letter stirs the memory of a dirty hand clutching a blue pen, carefully but quickly scratching it across the paper. 

Danny rips the envelope open with ease, withdrawing a single notecard. He stares down at the unmarked lines, frowning. He flips it over to the unlined side. He frowns harder.

“What’s it say?” Dylan pushes.

Danny reads, “‘Found important info/artifact in Place. Tell George I’m on my way.” George sits up straight, his face blank. “Signed, ‘Asia’.”

_ “Asia?”  _ George barks, jumping from his seat and leaning over to snatch the card from Danny’s hand. Danny blinks up at him, surprised.

“You know this person?” Dylan asks.

“You remember that friend I told you about?” George asks, face serious. “The one trying to help me find a tiebreaker?”

Dylan’s eyes widen. “Is this her?”

George nods, mouth tight. He looks down at the notecard. “Which means she’s  _ not  _ trapped in The Place right now.” He presses a hand to his forehead, breathing deeply. “Thank  _ God,”  _ he murmurs.

“Would she go  _ in  _ The Place for a tiebreaker?” Dylan asks.

“Probably not,” George says. “But we were studying The Place together. Exploring it. Before… all of this. So the, uh…” He clears his throat. “The Big Bad marked her, too.”

“Oh,” Dylan says, blinking.

Jordon stares at George, eyes wide and brow furrowed. “Wait, so you - you guys went  _ into _ The Place? Just to explore?  _ Seriously?” _

“We did,” George says, voice quiet. “That’s, uh -” He swallows. “How it got me in the first place.” He looks at their wide-eyed, disbelieving faces. “I know it was stupid. Asia knows it was stupid. But we can’t do anything to change it.” He sighs, looks away from them. “If I could take it back, I would. But I can’t.” 

“Shit,” Jordon breathes. He looks down at his hands. “So this is… permanent.”

“Unless we deal with whoever’s doing this, it is,” George says. He rubs his face. “Even then, it still might be. I don’t know.” 

“Shit,” Jordon repeats. There’s a slight glimmer near him, the outline of a person, and George zeroes in on it. He knows someone's there. He wonders if Jordon can feel them, too.

“What do we do, then?” Danny asks, a desperate edge to his voice.

George purses his lips. He’s silent for a moment before he says, “We wait for Asia.”

“So we stay here?” Dylan asks, face scrunching.

“No. She’ll find us.” He sighs. “It’s probably better to stay together in one spot for a while, though.”

“Is she gonna try to kill us, too?” Jorel mutters.

George snorts. “She’ll kill you if you call her a hoe, but she’s not gonna hunt you like I did.”

“Okay,” Danny says, taking a deep breath, “so where do we go from here?”

“The nurses said Jay can go home today once they’ve finished stitching the wound,” Dylan says. “We could all go grab a bite to eat or something.”

“You want me to eat out with our attempted murderer?” Jordon whines. Danny flinches. “C’mon, bro.”

“Dude,” Dylan says, putting a hand on Jordon’s arm. “You’re my number one homie. George is my homie now, too. I just want y’all to get along.”

Jordon stares at him. “I’m your number one homie?” He looks far more emotional than seems appropriate here. “Bro…”

“Bro.”

_ “What  _ are you two doing,” Jorel says, wincing when he shifts on the bed.

“We’re vibing,” Jordon says. “Give us some privacy.”

“Oh my god,” Danny says.

George can’t hold back the laughter this time. The others are a little startled by it, staring at him as he lets out a full, deep laugh. 

“Oh my  _ god,”  _ George chokes out through his cackles. “You’re so  _ dumb.” _

Dylan giggles, pressing a hand to his mouth as his shoulders shake. Jordon’s chuckling along, his smile splitting his face, Danny grinning with him. Jorel gives them all an unimpressed look, despite how the corner of his mouth is tugged into a little smirk.

“Okay, seriously,” Dylan coughs out as they all begin to settle down. “Seriously. Let’s, uh, wait for Jorel to get out? And then go live it up.”

George nods. “Okay.”

Jordon nods along, trying to fight back his worry. He needs time to look for the talisman. Randi presses a hand to his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispers. “We don’t have time for that right now.”

“Jordon,” George says, “... You feel something weird?”

Jordon narrows his eyes as Randi retreats. “No,” he spits. 

George stares at him. “Right.” He looks away.

Jordon bites his lip. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The first time Dylan really questions the shard is while Jorel’s wound is being sutured, when Dylan takes a step outside to enjoy the day. He leans against the wall of the hospital, watching fluffy white clouds roll across the blue sky. He hopes that means it’s done raining. 

The shard tingles against his thigh. 

Dylan reaches into his pocket to retrieve it, looking down at its colorful surface. It’s a weird thing, sure, but it’s a pretty thing. 

The question comes when Dylan, doing an elaborate hand-dance while he gets carried away playing  _ Shake That  _ in his head, flicks his wrist and immediately feels his magic surge. A shadow is tugged over him. He blinks, halting his dance and abandoning all thoughts of music. 

The shard glimmers up at him, looking the same as it always has. But there’s magic pooling at his pulse points, beating inside his veins, and this is  _ not normal.  _ It’s only this strong when he’s out of control.

Throat tight, he stuffs the shard into his pocket and rushes back inside, his skin prickling and his heart slamming inside of his chest. 

He forces himself to slow down as the magic recedes, taking shaky steps back towards the guys and trying to swallow his anxiety. 

The feeling of magic in his body has vanished back to his subconscious, but he knows it was there.

The shard tingles against his thigh.

What’s he gotten himself into?

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


They go for ice cream once Jorel’s let out. Jorel asks for just a cup of ice, as he still feels too ill to stomach any food but wants something to soothe his hot, itchy throat. The guys accept it without a word. 

No one complains when Jorel leans on them, or when his body gets too heavy and they have to slow their pace for him. As Jordon will later point out, the dude’s been having a rough few days. 

They walk to a park and huddle together at a little picnic table, Jorel leaning bodily on Dylan as he slowly spoons ice into his own mouth. He hadn’t felt so weak with the IV in.

A semi-decent experience with a doctor. Hm.

Danny hums and digs into his own sundae, occasionally plucking out a piece of fruit to drop to where Louie is sprawled on Danny’s feet.

Jordon, tearing into what is quite possibly the fudgiest sundae he’s ever seen, looks at George across the table, a little ping of anxiety in his chest.

Randi, sitting on the very edge of this side’s little bench, leans over and swipes up a bit of ice cream to lift to her own mouth. Something about it is off.

Randi glances at George, who’s focused on his own cone. She elbows Jordon. “If you’re gonna be stuck with this guy, you might as well bond with him,” she says, a cheeky smile on her face.

Jordon looks at George. Takes a deep breath. He bites the bullet.

“So,” he says, a little uncomfortably, “you got butterflies on your hand.”

They all look to the butterfly tattoos scattered across the back of George’s hand.

There’s a little smile on George’s face. “Yeah,” he says, “butterflies are the shit.”

For a little while, they forget everything else.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


When they’ve finished their ice cream, Jordon takes Dylan by the wrist and shouts at the others to follow as he drags Dylan over to the grass. He plops down, pulling Dylan with him.

George is the only one that doesn’t sit, instead standing a few inches away, arms crossed.

Danny pulls Louie into his lap and strokes his head, eyes distant as his thoughts wander while Dylan and Jordon chatter beside him.

Jorel inspects the grass, the little white flowers blooming in the green. It’s beautiful. It’s so alive. He forgets his own state of sickness for a moment.

He smiles a bit, reaches out with a shaky hand to feel the grass.

The moment his fingers brush against the dirt, a tiny flower bud sprouts, gently curling around the tip of his finger. 

He jerks his hand back, blinking. 

“You okay?” Danny asks, knitting his brows.

Jorel nods. “Yeah. Just… thought I saw something in the grass.”

“Okay,” Danny says uncertainly, but leaves Jorel be, returning his attention to the people strolling around the park. 

Jorel looks down at the flower bud before looking away again, holding back a groan at his lightheadedness. The doctor had said the sickness should clear up soon. They sent him “home” with antibiotics and instructions to care for the wound properly. They hadn’t even sutured the wound fully, apparently, just enough to hold the flesh together and let it heal.

He’ll need the guys’ help to care for it. Treating a wound when you’re homeless is pretty shit.

He hates needing help.

A flower brushes against his hand. He stares down at it. It’s all white petals with a little yellow center, beaming up at him.

He moves his hand away.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The others are calm right now, only small notes of unease coming from Jorel and Dylan. Danny would like to know what’s got them ruffled, but he doesn’t want to pry. Instead, he pets Louie and watches the people in the park. One of the women near them is feeling a little distressed, holding her hand against her stomach, and he can feel the tension of her tears struggling to escape, the fear in her chest.

He takes a piece of the guys’ calm and gently pushes it through to the woman, wedging it between her fear and her hurt. He hopes it helps in some way. He returns his attention to Louie, relieved and slumbering in Danny’s arms. He gently strokes Louie’s head. Louie chuffs and adjusts his position in Danny’s lap, wheezing as he settles back down. Danny pats his side.

The hair on the back of his neck rises, a shiver running down his spine. He throws a look behind himself. 

Nothing.

He looks forward once again.

The feeling of eyes on his back remains.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Asia pants, stopping for a moment to regain her breath. She’s almost there.

She pushes on, her feet throbbing.  _ Richwood Park.  _

She’s almost there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone needs a mostly-fluffy chapter sometimes
> 
> also fun fact the hospital my dad was in had no visiting hours for some reason? visitors could just come and go as they pleased. wack


	12. An Arrival / A Progression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: one (1) scene of throwing up in an unhygienic place and that’s it

Everyone makes mistakes, sure, but Jordon’s just made a  _ huge  _ dumbass mistake. Turns out eating ice cream on an empty stomach is actually a bad idea.

Randi, sprawled on the grass in front of him, stares at him disbelievingly, and he has to resist the urge to outright yell  _ You’re supposed to be mothering me!  _ She raises a critical eyebrow at him. Oh, so she’s going the  _ scolding _ mother route. She rolls her eyes.

A wave of nausea tightens in his stomach, climbs into his throat.

Jesus, he’s gonna hurl. 

“Hang on,” he wheezes to the guys before pushing himself up and hurriedly racing across the grass to the park bathroom. The guys watch with confused eyes as he goes. He crashes into the bathroom, picking a toilet and aiming for it as he vomits. Randi presses a hand to Jordon’s back, rubbing between his shoulder blades in a comforting motion. 

He heaves until nothing else comes, and then he pushes himself to his feet and finally realizes the state of the bathroom. 

“Oh my god,” Jordon says. Randi looks horrified.

They hurry from it quickly after that, Jordon trying not to start gagging again.

The second he steps through the door, he’s slammed against the wall. He squeaks, staring at the dirty face of a ruffled-looking woman. Her eyes are narrowed.

“Where’s George?” she asks, voice hoarse like she’s overused it. Or underused it.

“Is this Asia?” Randi says, attempting to move a protective arm between Jordon and the woman pinning him to the wall.

Jordon blinks, wide-eyed. “Are you Asia?” he squeaks.

She blinks back at him. She lets him go, letting her arms fall to her sides. “I am,” she says, darting glances around the park. “Are you one of the Js or one of the Ds?”

“One of - what.” He coughs. They stare at each other for a long moment. “Why’d you come for me. Instead of George.”

“Your energy is the most prominent right now,” she says, her eyes sharp on him. Intelligent. “The others are here, too. Where?”

“They’re, uh -” He gestures vaguely across the park. “Over there.”

Asia nods and whirls around, setting off in the direction that Jordon pointed. He hurries to catch up with her, Randi trailing along.

“I’m Jordon, by the way,” he mumbles. Randi is silent beside him, gaping at Asia’s back.

Asia quickens her pace, eyes determined. “George!” 

The guys flinch, turning to watch her storm up to them, Jordon rushing after her.

“George.” She slides to a stop in front of him, not giving him time to shake off the last of his surprise. “We need to talk.”

  
  


******

  
  
  


“What is it?” George asks once they’re sat at a deserted bus station. “Your note said you had important info?”

“Yes. The Place got me again, but I learned something while I was in there,” Asia says, looking over their little group. George had introduced them to her on the way. She wipes dirt off her face. “But first. George.” She looks him dead in the eyes, even through his sunglasses. “Whoever the fucker controlling The Place is, we need to get rid of him.”

The others watch silently as George’s lips tighten. “I agree,” he murmurs. 

“Hold on,” Danny says, pale, looking a little sick, or like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. “Are you talking about… about killing him?”

“Not necessarily,” George says.

Asia nods, her eyes hard. “There should be other ways to get rid of him that don’t require death. We just have to find them.” She looks to George. “And I think I’ve found something that might help with that.”

George stares at her for a long, long moment. “What would that be?”

“The Not-It was rambling to me about it. An item -”

“The Not-It?” Dylan cuts in. 

Asia purses her lips. “Some facet of The Place. It takes the form of someone - or  _ something  _ \- important to you. It gets malicious, but most of the time it’s just there to observe you. Basically, it wavers between hostile and neutral.”

Randi coils tight, retreating into Jordon’s head. Jordon had told her about Not-Randi when they’d gotten home.

He shudders at the reminder.

“If it was rambling, I assume it was hostile,” George remarks dryly. Asia snorts.

“It was,” she says, equally as dry, a humorless smirk on her face, before she sobers again. “It mentioned something about an… item of power.”

George’s brow furrows. “I… don’t know what that would mean.”

“It said that the item’s hidden somewhere in The Place,” Asia says. “I’d guess behind a simulation. If the guy’s putting it where we’d be able to work through and get it, it’s probably minor, but we need all the help we can get if we want this guy to be done for.” She presses her lips together. “Taking  _ any _ power away from that son of a bitch would help.”

“Why would he put it where we could find it?” Jorel asks slowly, frowning. “Wouldn’t that fuck his shit up?”

“He wants entertainment,” Asia says. She’s scowling. “If there’s anything more important than this… we’re  _ really  _ gonna have to fight for it.”

“So,” Jordon says, throat tight, “what do we do?”

“It’s simple. We prepare to go into The Place,” Asia says, “and then we go in.” Danny blanches.

“Wait, we’re going in there  _ willingly?”  _ Jorel asks, eyes big.

“You don’t have to worry too much, Jorel,” George says. “Just pay attention to if Arina’s directing you to the Safe Zone.”

Asia arches a brow. “Safe Zone?”

“I’ll explain,” George says. “But we should wrap this up first.”

“Right.”

“And how do we prepare for something like that?” Jordon asks, brow raised. Randi squirms uncomfortably in his brain. “It’s not a job interview, bro.”

Asia chuckles, though there’s not much amusement in it. “No. I like to compare it to preparing for a pilgrimage. Pack snacks and drinks. You won’t need a change of clothes and you probably won’t even need to eat or drink very often, but sometimes The Place likes to give you a sense of hunger or thirst. Food and drink helps if The Place puts you in any severe distress, too.” The guys look perturbed by that, exchanging nervous looks. “Pack medical supplies. Your wounds don’t usually follow you outside of The Place, but you should still treat them in there or The Place will just expand on it.”

“This sounds like death, dude,” Dylan says, brows knitted. Danny bounces his leg, chewing on his bracelet as Jorel struggles to sit up straight beside him. 

“It feels like it sometimes,” George admits, voice quiet. Randi emerges from Jordon’s head for a brief moment to wrap her arms around Jordon, giving him a squeeze before she returns to his head again.

Asia sighs and continues. “The most important part is  _ emotionally  _ preparing yourself. Talk yourself up beforehand, or at least ignore any low self-esteem for a while before you go in. Try not to think of bad things while you’re in there. Remind yourself beforehand that The Place is trying to mess with your head. The things it says are specifically trying to attack you. Remind yourself that what it shows isn’t real. Very few things in there are real. Just remember that.”

“What if one of us doesn’t remember that?” Danny whispers. He’s pale, eyes wide with worry. 

“Then the rest of us will help and get them out if we need to,” Asia says, conviction in her voice. Her eyes are hard and determined, her head held high. “No way in hell are we throwing anyone to the wolves.” She looks over them, her eyes narrowing. They shrink back. “And if any one of you tries to abandon the others, I’ll kick the fucking shit out of you.”

“Got ya, dawg,” Dylan mutters, “but I think we’re too attached to each other to leave anyone behind.”

“Good,” Asia says.

“So when are we doing this?” George asks, looking down at her.

“Tonight. At least midnight, so we all have time to get our shit together.”

“Tonight’s...really soon,” Jordon says, because  _ goddamnit,  _ he needs time to continue his search. 

“It’s either we go in soon or we get swallowed by it while completely unprepared,” Asia says, jaw set, and her tone brokers no argument. 

Still, Jordon tries. “Are we even allowed to bring things into The Place?”

“Mundane things like snacks and medical supplies? Yes. Extraordinary things, you have to finesse.”

He tries again. “You  _ just  _ got out.”

“It trapped me,” Asia says, “and it got a hold of me out of nowhere. Going in prepared isn’t the same problem.” She sighs. “And regardless, I do what I have to. There are people I need to protect.” She looks at George. “It’s got a special relationship with both of us, George. If either of us gets caught in another loop -”

“Whoever’s left can try to get whoever’s caught or they can get away with what we need,” George says, solemn. “I think the latter option is better.”

Asia nods, face grim. “And, George.” Her voice is strained, softer. “If he hurts -”

“I know,” George says. “I won’t let that happen.” He pauses. “You can kill me if it does.”

She furrows her brow. “No. I’m not gonna do that. Just -”

“I know.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, their faces pensive and sad.

The others watch with uncomprehending eyes.

“Uh…?” Jordon says.

They snap out of it. “Right,” Asia says, voice firm and decisive once more as she turns to them. “All of you, start getting ready. Give George your numbers if you haven’t already so we can tell you where to meet us. We have work to do.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny, helper that he is, offers to drop Dylan and Jordon off so they can pack, and they accept without hesitation.

“Don’t really have food at home,” Dylan notes halfway through their drive, sprawled across the backseat with his legs in Jordon’s lap, Louie lounging on Dylan’s own lap. Danny keeps glancing back to make sure that Dylan’s not about to be choked to death by his seatbelt.

Jordon’s squirming slightly at the feeling of human weight on him, his skin tight and twitchy. He’s still not used to being touched.

“You have no food?!” Jordon exclaims, slapping his hands against Dylan’s legs. Louie grumbles, giving Jordon a judgmental look. Randi is perched atop the seats, her back pressed against the ceiling of the car as she sits bent over. It looks incredibly uncomfortable, but Randi has a knack for folding her body to fit into weird places.

“Nah,” Dylan says, moving one of his legs to gently kick the back of the passenger seat, jarring Jorel, who just grumbles. “I don’t have a lot of money and I don’t go shopping all that often.” 

Jordon exchanges a brief look with Randi. “Danny, don’t go to Dilly’s place, just go to mine,” Jordon says. He looks at Dylan. “You can have some of my shit, bro.”

“Really, dawg?” Dylan’s eyes brighten. “Shit, man, you the MVP.”

“We’re ride-or-dies now, bro,” Jordon announces with a definitive nod.

“Homes…”

“You okay, Danny?” Jorel mumbles, eyeing their driver. Danny is whiteknuckling the steering wheel again. Jordon and Dylan go quiet, turning their attention to Danny.

“Just,” Danny starts, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t look good. “...Do you guys think this is gonna kill us?”

They fall silent.

They remain silent even as Danny drops Dylan and Jordon off, save for their farewells.

No one ever answers his question.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“This your pad?” Dylan asks as Jordon unlocks the front door of his house, Randi tucked away in his head.

“Sure is, bro.” Jordon throws the door open. “Casa de Terrell! Come in.”

They shuffle in together. The house is small, kind of cold. There are music posters plastered across the walls, several of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. One wall is crowded with photos of Jordon and people that Dylan assumes are his family. It’s a messy place - a shirt thrown on the floor, a shocking amount of pillows and ruffled blankets sloppily stacked on the couch, a large stuffed dog thrown onto the floor beside the couch with a weighted blanket draped over it.

Dylan loves it.

“Nice place,” Dylan says, and there’s not a single trace of sarcasm in it.

Jordon hesitates in the kitchen, his hands falling to his sides, lost on what to do. He hasn’t had people over in forever.

Randi nudges forth the memory of Asia’s words.

Right. Prepare.

Jordon shuffles back out of the (oddly clean, Dylan thinks) kitchen and starts towards his room, Dylan trailing behind.

Jordon pushes his door open and bumbles over to the closet. Dylan takes in the room as Jordon rummages, admiring the continuation of music posters and the even larger pile of blankets and pillows. There are several fat stuffed animals strewn across the bed, a body-sized pillow, another weighted blanket at the end. The bed sheets are halfway off the bed.

“Shit, dude,” Dylan murmurs, “this is fuckin’  _ cozy.” _

Jordon doesn’t seem to hear him. “A-ha,” he mutters as he withdraws a large, bulky hiking backpack. He shakes out a big cloud of dust that sends them both into a coughing fit. Dylan wheezes, taking a step back as his eyes water, covering his mouth with one hand. 

Jordon hacks and wheezes, blinking dust out of his now-stinging eyes, and gets to his feet. “Okay,” he croaks, coughing again. “Let’s fill this up.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny and Louie walk slowly with Jorel into his studio, Danny hovering his hand near Jorel’s uninjured arm.

“I need to buy food,” Jorel mutters as he shuffles slowly to the “backyard.” “I have some money, but do you have any food? We might need to get some from your place.”

Danny blinks. “Um - well, actually, uh -” He coughs. “My house just burnt down.”

Jorel stops in his tracks. He turns to Danny, eyes widening. “It - what.”

Danny looks towards Louie. “It burnt down.”

“I got that part,” Jorel says. “I’m just - I wasn’t expecting that.”

Danny shrugs uncomfortably. “Yeah, I wasn’t either.”

Jorel rubs his eyes. “You staying with your mom, then?”

Danny shakes his head, kicking his foot against the ground as he bites his lip. “No, actually, I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

Jorel stares at him. “How is she paying for my medical bill, then?” he asks slowly.

Danny’s brow furrows. “Well, she isn’t. I’m using money that she gave me a few years ago after -” He stops. “After... a weird point in my life, I guess.”

Jorel  _ cannot  _ stop staring. “Wha - how much did she give you?”

Danny blinks. “Oh, uh, about ten grand.”

Jorel sputters, eyes going wide. “I’m sorry,  _ what?” _

“She’s… pretty wealthy, I guess.”

Jorel just gapes at him. “You mean someone gave you  _ ten grand  _ a few  _ years  _ ago, and you haven’t spent it? How the fuck did you even - what?”

Danny rubs the back of his neck. “I keep it in a separate bank account,” he murmurs, “and, I mean, I have a decent job right now, so I haven’t really had to rely - wait.” His eyes go round. “Oh,  _ shit,  _ I haven’t called in.” He fishes his phone from his pocket, face panicked as he hurriedly taps at it. 

Jorel keeps staring. Who the fuck even is this guy?

“And… I’m fired.” Danny’s voice is hollow as he puts the phone away, rubbing at his face. “They emailed me. I didn’t even see.” He looks down at the ground, biting his lip.

Jorel looks away. 

They stand in silence for a long moment.

“I have a pack,” Jorel says. “We can share it, if you wanna come look for stuff to put in it.”

Danny looks up at him, face soft with sadness and gratitude. “Thank you,” he says, voice small. “...You don’t have to share your pack with me if you feel obligated.”

“I’m offering,” Jorel says. He looks towards the grass and begins to walk again. “Now come on and help me dig up my money. We can pay together.”

Danny blinks, brow wrinkling with confusion, and follows after him.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“What happened this time?” George asks, leaning against the wall of the empty women’s restroom as he watches Asia wash the dirt from her face and hands.

She purses her lips, pushing her dampened hair back and staring into the sink as dirty water pools around the drain. 

“I woke up,” she says, “and I couldn’t breathe. Or move. Or see. I squirmed around for a bit and just... used pressure until it broke and I fell out.”

“Until what broke?”

She sighs. “It trapped me in a statue.”

George blanches. “A  _ statue?” _

“Yep. And then I fell. I fell through one hole, and then another, and I didn’t stop falling until I hit the dirt and the Not-It was there to drag me through a fucking labyrinth.”

“Asia…” George stares at her with worried eyes.

“It’s alright, George,” she mutters. “It’s done worse.” She looks at him, eyes sharp. “You know, you’ve never told me what happened in your loop.”

George tenses, bad memories flashing through his mind, and he hastens to shut them out. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he mutters. She frowns.

Still, she moves on. “So how’d you meet these guys?”

George inhales sharply. “I have… quite the story for you.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon and Dylan fill the pack with what they consider to be the feast of champions: beef jerky, chips, frosted animal crackers, an assortment of cookies, cracker jacks, twinkies, cosmic brownies, and whoopie pies. Only clean, healthy eating here. Once the food’s in the pack, Jordon shoves a few bottles of water and juice in alongside it.

“You have so much food,” Dylan breathes, despite the fact that 90% of said food is junk. Jordon preens anyway. 

The bathroom, thankfully, is not messy. Dylan watches Jordon tug one of the cabinets open, pulling out an overstuffed first aid kit. He shoves it into the pack with the food before closing the pack tightly.

Dylan’s phone pings and he withdraws it from his pocket. 

**_Shared Trauma Bro:_ ** _ Meet 3 miles west of Richwood Park. Gas station called Butterfly Market. Be there by midnight. _

Dylan taps out a slew of thumbs ups and okay signs in return. He’s about to slip the phone back into his pocket when it pings again.

**_Danny:_ ** _ Did George text you? _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ He sure did homie _

**_Danny:_ ** _ Do you want me to pick you guys up?  _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ If you up for it _

He sends a dancing man emoji.

**_Danny:_ ** _ Now or just before the meeting? _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ Eh Jordon and I can hang out for a while. Y’all can join us tho? I can ask Jay _

**_Danny:_ ** _ No, I’m still with him. I’ll ask him. _

There’s a pause.

**_Danny:_ ** _ We need to finish buying our supplies and then we’ll come. Are you still at Jordon’s place? _

**_Dylan:_ ** _ We are _

He sends a dancing woman emoji.

**_Danny:_ ** _ Okay, be there soon. _

Dylan taps out a paragraph of thumbs ups, grinning faces, and drooling faces. Danny sends a question mark in return. 

“Okay, dude,” he says, snapping Jordon out of an absently-staring-at-the-wall moment. “George says we’re meeting at a gas station called Butterfly Market at midnight. Danny and Jay are coming over to hang out with us for a while before. You got any movies? We can watch ‘em while we emotionally prepare.”

Jordon blinks. Dylan is staying? People are coming to his house? They’re willingly coming to  _ his  _ house? They  _ want _ to hang out with him?

Randi is practically vibrating in his head from excitement.

“Uh, yeah,” Jordon stammers. “C’mon, let’s go look for one.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“Where’d you get all this money?” Danny asks once they’ve dug up Jorel’s lockbox, gaping at the money inside as Jorel unlocks it and flips it open. “I - I thought you were… what?”

“I’m still poor as shit,” Jorel says with a snort. “It’s too expensive just to live.” He looks up at Danny, stifling a burp that he’s pretty sure might lead to vomit. He stares at Danny. Danny stares back.

Ah, fuck it. It’s not like this could get any weirder. 

“I’m a burglar,” Jorel says.

“Oh.” Danny looks at the money. 

“I only steal from rich people,” Jorel says simply. “Assholes, specifically.”

“Makes sense,” Danny mutters. He rubs his eyes. “I’m just a little surprised.”

“A  _ little _ ?” Jorel laughs. “Wasn’t expecting that response.” 

“Well, how have other people reacted?”

“You’re the first person I’ve told about it.”

“Because I probably wouldn’t report you?” Danny asks, turning to Jorel with tired eyes. “I mean, I wouldn’t, just -”

“We’re literally going into an alternate dimension together.”

They stare at each other. 

Jorel turns back to the lockbox and pulls a small wad of cash from it. “Come on. Help me bury this again and we’ll go buy our shit.”

Danny helps him scrape the churned earth back into the little hole, packing the dirt in. He takes hold of Louie’s leash again. They start off together on the short walk to the nearest store, silent.

They’re halfway through the walk when Jorel speaks.

“I fucked it up, didn’t I?” Jorel mumbles. 

Danny slows. “What?”

“Telling you I’m a burglar? I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t,” Danny says. “You aren’t stealing from anyone in need, at least. I won’t judge.”

“I used to,” Jorel mutters. “Steal from people in need. When I was first starting.”

“Well, you don’t anymore,” Danny says. His voice is quiet, contemplative. “That matters more than you think.” He looks at Jorel from the corner of his eye. Waves of shame are rolling off of him, crashing into Danny, and his heart aches. “It matters that you knew it was wrong.”

“I’m not asking for pity,” Jorel snaps, squaring his shoulders, a note of defensiveness stirring through the shame. Danny falls silent. He thinks it’s best for him to back off.

Jorel sighs, deflating. Aron had never wanted to risk the rich houses, always said rich people are more willing to go after you, to call the police. He was right in that regard, but Jorel stopped caring about that long ago.

“Jorel?”

Jorel blinks, snapped from his thoughts. They’re standing in front of the store now. Danny is looking at him, concerned. Jorel says nothing.

They head inside together, Danny pulling out his phone at the sound of a text.

“We’re meeting at a gas station at midnight,” Danny says. He looks at Jorel, eyes worried. “You sure you can handle it, dude?”

Jorel nods. “We don’t have a choice. But I’m feeling a little better.”

Danny nods, tapping at his phone. “Do you wanna go to Jordon’s once we’re done here? Hang out for a while before we have to go? Dylan invited us.”

Jorel nods, wincing at the motion. He has nothing else to do. Danny smiles a bit and texts Dylan back. “Okay,” he says, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Let’s get our stuff.”

Danny walks slowly down the aisles with Jorel, both of them pushing food into their cart as they go. Fruit cups, Oreos, granola bars, trail mix, corn nuts, cheesesticks, crackers, a few candy bars. Jorel’s hygiene kit and first aid kit are already in the pack, but they buy another roll of bandages and another box of Tylenol to be safe. Danny grabs six Gatorades for them all at the end, throwing them onto the conveyor belt. He pays for most of it, at his own insistence, but Jorel does force in a few dollars. 

They end up not being able to fit the Gatorades into Jorel’s pack, but Danny’s fine with carrying the plastic bag. They walk slowly back to the studio before packing Louie and their things into Danny’s car.

“I’m just gonna drop Louie off at one of those doggie daycares real quick. There’s an overnight one nearby. It’ll be quick.”

Jorel nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “okay.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Asia marks the entry point, using a stick to drag an X through the dirt behind the gas station. She throws the stick to the ground, dusting her hands off on her shirt.

“Almost ready?” George asks as he looks up at the now-dark sky. He can still feel the slightest sting from the slap Asia gave him earlier upon learning that he’d tried to kill the others. It had been reactionary, before he’d explained why, but it was still pretty justified, in his opinion. Their things are piled into two bags on the dirt.

“Yep,” she says. “I think this is the best place to open it.” She puts her hands on her hips, staring at the X as the rising moon washes light over her hair. “Now we wait.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Night approaches quickly.

Jordon shuts the TV off, cutting their second movie short. No one really minds. Jordon isn’t sure that watching an inexplicably sexual, absolutely awful, tryhard comedy about “teens” going to Havasu was a good choice when they were supposed to be emotionally preparing. Danny had just been covering his eyes the entire time. 

Jordon switches the lights off as they head to Danny’s car.

They drive in silence.

Dylan is still, stiff in his own seat, tense from the dread of what’s finally going to come.

Danny’s whiteknuckling the steering wheel again, his breath held in his throat as he tries to ease his anxiety. Emotional preparation isn’t his strong suit.

Jorel clutches his arm against his chest. He’s too exhausted to be afraid anymore.

Jordon just hopes he can get Randi in this time.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“Ready?” Asia asks as the group wanders over to her, George standing beside her with his arms crossed. They’re both outlined by the moonlight, washed in a pale silvery glow, and Danny’s fear is forgotten in the face of how beautiful they look here.

“As ready as we can be,” Jordon says, voice tense, arms crossed.

Asia nods. She lifts the two bags, passing one to George and throwing her own over her shoulder. The others clutch on to their own packs, exchanging worried looks. “Everyone hold on to each other. Whatever you do, don’t let go while we go through.” She takes hold of George’s hand, and then she grabs Danny’s. Danny licks his lips and grabs Jorel’s, and Jorel hesitantly grabs Dylan’s. Dylan extends his remaining hand to Jordon. 

Jordon takes it, and Randi slips her hand into his free one.

George lifts his free hand.

He pulls the doorway open.


	13. The Little Engine That Could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think I can, I think I can,” Not-Randi chirps, her voice high and mocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: just injuries described in kinda nasty ways

As soon as they begin to slip into The Place, Jordon’s arm tugs as Randi clutches his hand, beginning to lose her grip. She cries out.

Jordon freezes, squeezing her hand hard as it slips further from his, until he’s just gripping her fingers.

Jordon attempts to tug her with him. She shouts. Her hand slips further. 

He releases Dylan’s hand. Someone shouts _“Jordon!”_

He twists with his free hand to grip onto Randi’s arm, pulling her with both hands. She screams.

He pulls. She screams.

He pulls harder.

With a final scream, the tension disappears and Randi crashes into him. They topple together onto a hard floor. 

They pant, Jordon’s rib cage reverberating with the pain of smacking against the floor. He pushes himself up, looking at Randi sprawled on the floor beside him, and gently shakes her.

“Randers, are you okay?”

Slowly, she nods, and forces herself up with shaky arms, until she’s almost on her knees. “That was… it felt like I was being torn in half.” 

Jordon looks her over, searching for any injury. He’s not sure if that would be possible here. 

There’s no sign of any wound on her. He sighs in relief.

“Jordon…” Randi says slowly. “Where are the others?”

Jordon blinks. Looks around.

They’re in a small, white, windowless and doorless room.

And they’re completely by themselves.

Shit.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George draws his breath in in a gasp as they slip through the veil, his shoes sliding across the floor and his vision swimming.

He shakes his head, screwing his eyes shut when his vision sparks. He takes a deep breath and forces his eyes open.

They’re in a grocery store. An empty grocery store, silent and dark. He looks around as the others groan behind him. The ceiling lights are gummed over with dirt and rust, cobwebs strung from aisle to aisle, the clothing racks tarnished and plastered with dust and grime.

“Where are we?” Jorel murmurs, eyes wide as he looks around, covering his mouth and his nose with one hand to avoid inhaling dust.

“The Place,” Asia says, as if they didn’t already know that.

“...An abandoned grocery store?” Danny murmurs.

“Who the fuck cares about that?!” Dylan snaps, startling the others. He’s whiteknuckling the straps of his and Jordon’s hiking pack, his face tense. “I’m more concerned with _why_ Jordon let go of my hand and where the _fuck he is now.”_

 _“What?!”_ George whirls around, searching for Jordon. 

But Dylan’s right. There’s only five people in the group. 

_“Shit,”_ Asia hisses at the same time that George shouts _“Fuck!”_

_HI, FRIENDS._

Danny jumps back and crashes into Jorel, toppling them both over. Dylan leaps forward to George and Asia, moving to stand beside them as they straighten their backs, holding their heads high and unafraid. 

Dylan’s a little startled by how similar they are.

“What the fuck do you want?!” George shouts. “What did you fucking do with Jordon?” Danny pushes himself to his feet, pulling Jorel up with him.

_CALM DOWN. WHAT DO YOU SAY WE PLAY A GAME?_

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon presses his hands to the walls, searching for any crack or crevice or odd lump that might clue him in on how to get out of here.

“Randers, you see anything?” Jordon asks as he bangs a fist against the wall. Randi doesn’t respond. “Randi?”

He turns around, and immediately freezes. 

There’s a door across from him, plain white, a glittering bronze knob on the front.

There’s no Randi.

“What the hell?” he whispers. Where the fuck did she go?

_HI, JORDON._

Jordon yelps, jumping back against the wall. No one’s in the room with him.

“What the _fuck?”_ he says, louder. “Where - Where’s Randi?”

_YOUR CREATION’S JUST FINE. I’LL GIVE HER BACK TO YOU IF YOU DO SOMETHING FOR ME FIRST._

Jordon presses his back harder against the wall, baring his teeth. What, does it want him to kill the others like George? “What the fuck do you want?”

_SIMPLE. MY PLACE AND I HAVE COOKED UP A SPECIAL LITTLE SIMULATION. JUST FOR YOU. GO THROUGH IT, SUCCEED, AND I’LL GIVE HER BACK._

Jordon swallows, jaw tightening. There’s no doubt in his mind that this guy won’t give Randi back if Jordon messes up. _Fuck._ “What if I don’t… succeed?”

_SIMPLE. I LOOP YOU._

Jordon doesn’t know what that means, but he’s not sure he would like to know anyway. 

He grits his jaw. It can’t be that bad, can it? It’ll be easy. Easy-peasy. He just needs to get Randi back. “Fine.”

_GOOD. OPEN THE DOOR._

Jordon growls and marches over to the door, taking hold of the knob and tugging it open.

Beyond the doorway is a steep hill, dirt and grass in a stone room.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“What kind of game?” George snaps.

_YOU’RE LOOKING FOR SOMETHING OF MINE. SEE, IT WOULDN’T BE AS FUN IF YOU HAD NO CHANCE AT ALL. SO, I’M WILLING TO GIVE IT TO YOU._

George narrows his eyes. Dylan exchanges confused looks with Danny and Jorel as Asia steps forward, her jaw clenched.

“On what terms?” she snaps.

 _SIMPLE. I WANT YOU ALL TO GO THROUGH A SIMULATION. I’LL LET GEORGE AND ASIA STAY TOGETHER, PERHAPS, BUT THE REST OF YOU? I WANT YOU TO SUCCEED_ ALONE. _DON’T WORRY, I’LL GO EASY ON YOU THIS TIME._

“No way,” George scoffs. Asia looks unsure. “Absolutely not. We don’t need it that badly. We can get you either way.”

 _CAN YOU? ALRIGHT. THEN HERE’S THIS: YOUR FRIEND JORDON’S IN ONE ALREADY._ They fall silent, George’s eyes going wide. _GO IN, AND HE’LL BE ABLE TO SUCCEED. IF YOU DON’T…_ There’s a laugh. _WELL, I’LL JUST LOOP HIM. GO IN, AND NOT ONLY DO YOU HAVE A CHANCE OF GETTING YOUR FRIEND BACK… HE HAS A CHANCE OF GETTING_ HIS _FRIEND BACK._

Asia’s brow furrows. “His friend?”

There’s a pause, during which the three non-badasses blink at each other. 

There’s another laugh. _OH, YOU DON’T KNOW YET? OKAY. PERHAPS YOU SHOULD ASK HIM. NOW SNAP TO IT. I MADE THEM JUST FOR YOU._

There’s four loud clicks, and the group turns to see four doorways appear at the entrances to the aisles. There’s a bold, red “J” painted on one, a purple “Dyl” on another, a yellow “Dan”, a blue “G + A”.

They exchange nervous looks. 

_GO ON._

“There’s no point bringing our things into a simulation,” Asia mutters as she and George drop their bags. Dylan, Danny, and Jorel follow her lead.

_GO. ON._

Swallowing, Danny steps toward his door.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The door slams shut behind Jordon as he steps into the hill room.

There’s a boulder embedded in the dirt at the base of the hill, big enough to probably be heavy, but small enough for him to wrap his arms around. Attached to the boulder is a knotted, splintering rope.

**_FIND YOUR STRENGTH._ **

Jordon flinches, eyes wide as he looks for the source of the booming voice. There’s nothing.

“Hi!”

Jordon whirls around, back to the hill, staring up at it. 

At the top of the hill, standing with her arms crossed, is Randi, but he can see the orange glow of her eyes. It’s not his Randi.

“Bitch,” he spits. She laughs.

**_FIND YOUR STRENGTH._ **

He flinches harder. 

What is it saying? “Find your strength”? 

**_FIND YOUR STRENGTH._ **

He blinks. Strength? 

He looks up the hill. Looks at the boulder, the rope attached to it. 

The heavy boulder.

**_FIND YOUR STRENGTH._ **

Swallowing, he steps in between the boulder and the hill. Strength. A boulder. He looks back up the hill. 

Not-Randi waves, her teeth glinting in the light. 

With another swallow, Jordon takes hold of the rope and begins to pull.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny steps into a slanted hallway. 

It’s washed in a soft yellow light, the floors made of worn black stone. The windows are made of stained glass, but they don’t seem to be reflecting any light. The door slams shut behind him. 

He moves down the hallway, peering out the first window.

Past the window is an empty black lake and a gray shore, a faint white light moving in the distance - a lighthouse. There are the faint shapes of people milling about the shore. 

**_FIND HER._ **

Danny flinches, almost biting through his tongue with how hard he has to fight back a shout. He looks around, searching for the source of the voice. Nothing.

**_FIND HER._ **

He flinches again. Looks back out the window at the people. He turns away once more, searching for an exit. The walls behind him are bare, and the hall in front of him veers to the side, disappearing around the corner. He takes a deep breath, letting it whistle between his teeth. He’s not sure who he’s supposed to find, but he has nowhere else to go.

He starts down the hallway.

  
  
  


******

  
  


The door slams shut when Dylan’s halfway through, knocking against his back and toppling him onto the floor. He yelps as his face slams against hard stone. 

He pushes himself up, a sharp pain on the bridge of his nose, and looks around.

He’s in his old house.

He pushes himself to his feet, anxiety jumping in his heart. He’s in his mother’s house. His mother’s living room.

It looks the same as it did the last time he was there. Big and clean, blankets organized neatly on the couch, vanilla candles placed at various points around the room. In front of him is the door to the kitchen and the hallway to his and his sister’s rooms.

His sister.

He feels a little sick.

**_WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND._ **

He yelps, jumping back. The voice seemed to have been speaking from all around him. He swallows, struggling to ease his anxiety. 

He starts down the hallway, his stomach turning. It’s the same as it always was: two doors on each side, his and his sister’s rooms across from each other. 

He peers into the bathroom.

Sure enough, it’s exactly the same. There’s a psychedelic shower curtain, bottles of shampoo and conditioner and body wash lined up on the shelves. There’s a little hot pink bottle of kids’ bubblegum shampoo on one of the shelves, a cartoon character plastered on its front, and his heart tugs a bit. 

_(She loves using kids’ shampoo. It makes her feel youthful, free. He’d brought it to her in the hospital, after he - )_

**_WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND._ **

He flinches violently as he’s snapped from his thoughts. He looks around, eyes big. 

**_WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND._ **

He steps away from the bathroom, wiping his shaking, sweaty palms on his pants. He turns to head towards his room.

As he reaches for the knob, he pauses. Looks at his sister’s door. 

He pulls his hand away and moves for her door instead.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The hallway opens into a wide, empty room, a door across from Danny. The room is drenched in shadow, quiet and still. 

Danny steps forward into the room.

He starts violently at the sight of a figure, his eyes going wide, but then he sees that its head is a plastic skull and it’s not a real person.

He takes a long moment to catch his breath, one hand pressed to his chest as his heart hammers inside it.

He steps towards the figure, looking it over with nervous eyes.

It’s a large, plastic skeleton, a closed black cloak draped around it, the hood pulled up on its head. Though its empty eyes are half-covered by the hood, they almost seem fixed on Danny. He doesn’t like that.

Its bony hand is wrapped tightly around a tall, sharp scythe, and he can’t tell if the scythe is real or not.

He swallows and shuffles slowly past the Grim Reaper, throwing nervous glances over his shoulder as he moves for the door. He opens it slowly, looking back once more to make sure the skeleton isn’t following him.

He steps outside and closes the door behind him. 

He steps into an empty, dirt-floored clearing. It’s absurdly foggy out and he can barely see, though he manages to peer through enough to see a path leading away and the faint shapes of people moving within the fog. It must be leading him to the beach.

He starts slowly down the path, tensing as another figure appears in the fog. 

It’s another statue, one made of stone. It’s of an angel, her wings and arms spread wide, her head bowed as hair cascades down her back. 

At her feet is a gravestone. On it are the words “DANIEL ROSE MURILLO. ??? - ??? BELOVED BY NO ONE.”

Danny swallows and hurries past the statue, anxiety tightening his throat. He just wants to get out of here.

He continues on, tapping at his thighs, hands shaking, until he finally reaches the throng of people. 

**_FIND HER._ **

He flinches. Looks into the crowd. 

They’re all women.

His heart sinks. 

Which one would “her” be?

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon currently has four problems.

One; he manages to move the boulder just barely, just a tiny bit, in the span of five minutes. Two; his body is aching horribly already, his shoulders and arms straining and straining and straining, feeling very much like they’re about to be ripped right out of the sockets. Three; he kind of wants to cry. Four; he has the chorus of Business by Eminem stuck in his head and it refuses to leave.

He pants hard, taking a moment to stop and try to breathe. He can do this. Not-Randi laughs at him.

“Come on, Jordon,” she says, “find your str -”

**_FIND YOUR STRENGTH._ **

She scowls. “That’s what I was saying,” she mutters.

Jordon pants and starts to pull again as the memory of a song sticks in his head like a skipping record. He can do this. A sliver of unease tugs at him.

Jordon now has five problems. 

Five being; there’s a nagging feeling that he’s missing something.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


As Danny debates over which woman to point out, there’s a click, a brief burst of static, and then a song begins to play.

Danny’s blood goes cold.

_I’ll turn my back and hope to God you don’t stab me in it_

He wrote that song. He sang that song. That’s his song.

There’s another click, and the noise is gone.

Danny’s body goes fuzzy and distant, his mind disconnecting as panic bubbles in his veins. That’s his song. That’s his song and he sang it about -

Oh, no. No, no, no. Not _her._ He doesn’t want to look for her. No. He doesn’t want to find her. No. That’s not fair. No. 

Choking on tears and panic, he stumbles forward and grips the shoulder of the woman in front of him to ask where _she_ might be so he can hide.

She whirls around, long dark hair swinging, and he feels the hot punch of a knife in his stomach. He collapses.

“Danny?” She crouches down to take hold of his shoulders. “Danny?!”

He looks down at his stomach. There’s no wound, no blood, no stab.

He looks up at the woman, fear fogging his brain.

Her face is creased with worry, her eyes a gentle brown. Her hands are delicate on him, gentle, not hurtful.

“How are you -” She stops, blinking, and casts her gaze around the clearing. Danny realizes then that all the other women have disappeared. “Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, I’m not dreaming.”

He stares up at her.

“You’re not her,” he chokes out, because he can’t really comprehend it.

Her face softens slightly. “I’m not,” she says. “I’m not. Danny, do you - Danny!” His attention snaps back to her. “Danny, do you know where we are?”

He blinks. Looks around. “The Place,” he says.

“Damn,” she hisses, shoulders slumping.

**_FIND HER._ **

“Find her?” she asks, brow furrowing. Danny isn’t sure what’s happening. “Who? Are you -” She stares at him. “Are you looking for me?”

“Don't know,” Danny mumbles. “Don’t know who you are.”

She bites her lip. Looks around again. “Theresa,” she says. Looks back down at him. “I’m Theresa.”

A faint note of triumph rings in Danny’s brain. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, ‘m looking for you.”

**_FIND HER._ **

The voice is more insistent now.

“This isn’t enough, isn’t it?” she says quietly, looking back down at him. “Fine. I’ll make it easier for you. Meet me at your favorite coffee shop on Sunday. You can find me there.”

It clicks. The voice doesn’t speak again.

“Danny,” she says, gripping his hand, “Danny, I never wanted to see you here. I am _so_ sorry. I failed.”

He blinks at her. Opens his mouth to respond. 

He falls through the ground, falls to the floor of a dusty, abandoned grocery store.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon fights back tears as he struggles to pull the boulder up the hill, the bones pulling and popping beneath his bruising skin, shoulders twisting with pain. The boulder isn’t even a few inches up. He can do this. He can do this.

He sobs once at a sharp pain in his shoulder, collapses to the dirt, panting, his eyes glassy. He can do this. 

“I think I can, I think I can,” Not-Randi chirps, her voice high and mocking. 

“Shut… up…” Jordon wheezes, teeth grit. 

“You know,” she purrs, and he can barely hear her at this point, “you’re going for the obvious solution. That’s not what you’re supposed to do. You’re so silly, Jordon. Having smarts definitely isn’t _your_ strength.”

He sobs again, buries his face in the dirt. He knows that. He knows having smarts isn’t his strength, and neither is pulling a boulder.

Wait.

His strengths. He remembers filling out job applications, the silly questions asking what he thinks his strengths are. Even stupid little school papers where he had to talk himself up.

His strengths. What did he used to say his strengths were?

 _Good people skills._ Not really. _Charismatic._ Eh, kind of. _Smart._ Not even close. _A willingness to learn._ Probably not. _Big imagination._ True enough. _Friendly._ Also true, though it’s never really helped his case. _Good at managing tasks._ Fair enough.

This isn’t helping. Not-Randi laughs in the background. Jordon wants to cry.

He wracks his brain for some answer. What did everyone else think his strengths were? His dad used to tell Jordon he was the bubbliest person on the block. Jordon’s sister used to tell him he was a player. Jordon’s mom would always praise his creativity, tell him that he had the strongest imagination of anyone she’d ever met.

 _Thanks, mom,_ Jordon thinks through his pain, his rib cage crackling when he snorts at the thought. He whines. _Now I’m 21 and still have an imaginary friend._

He thinks of Randi. Makes another pained noise. He needs to figure this out for her. He needs to get her back.

 _Yes, I need to get my imaginary friend back._ He lets out a pained laugh at that, almost screaming at the way his rib cage shakes and shudders.

Wait.

Big imagination. Strongest imagination of anyone she’d ever met. Imaginary friend.

It clicks.

He almost weeps with relief.

He closes his eyes and imagines. Imagines that the boulder is at the top of the hill. Imagines that he’s succeeded. Imagines that this will be over in just a moment.

He imagines.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Dylan steps into his sister’s room.

She’s actually there. Standing, staring at him. Her face is unblemished, her eyes glowing a soft purple. Dylan would be surprised if he didn’t feel so numb to this Place’s bullshit.

“Hi, Dyl,” she says, and her teeth are absurdly sharp. She doesn’t smile. She just stares at him, coldly. 

**_WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND._ **

“You know what you did, don’t you?” she asks.

“You’re not real,” he says, quietly, hollow. 

“You know what you did,” she spits, eyes flashing. “That’s why you hated seeing the shampoo, isn’t it?”

Dylan flinches, taking a step back. “And what did I do?” he snaps, as if he isn’t remembering what it’s like to be in distress, and then that distress is bursting energy, and the energy is out of your control and then you’re screaming and your sister is screaming and then you’re going unconscious and then you find out you’ve destroyed half of your sister’s face and then

 _“You know what you did!”_ she shrieks, one side of her face melting and twisting, the skin cracking and warping. “You know what you did!”

He looks away, pressing his hands over his eyes. “No!” he shouts, face hot and flushed. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!”

**_WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND._ **

“You get what you give, Dylan,” she snarls, though she sounds like she’s laughing, too. Laughing, crying. “Look at what you did to her, you fucker. Get what you gave.”

**_WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND._ **

What goes around comes around.

What goes around.

Comes around.

_(He destroyed her face.)_

It clicks.

No.

No, no, no.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon imagines the outline of Randi, her hands on the boulder as she pushes it, rolling it up the hill with powerful arms. Not-Randi jumps and cheers and claps as the actual Randi pushes the boulder up, resting it at the top before sliding back down the hill, taking hold of Jordon and carefully mending his body, pulling his bones back into their rightful places and wiping the bruises away from his skin.

He peels his eyes open, pulled from his imagination at the sound of the boulder rolling. He moves his neck just enough to look up the hill.

The boulder is there at the top. There’s no actual Randi in sight, but Not-Randi stands beside the boulder, her orange eyes wide with surprise, her teeth glinting as she tapes down at him.

Body searing, sore inside and out, he cranes his pinching neck just enough to look Not-Randi in the eye, his breath rasping in his throat.

“Fuck… you… bitch…” he pants, and then he passes out.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny sits silently on the floor of the grocery store, his mouth presses into a thin line, his mind hazy and unclear as he watches the doors. All he can hear is his song, the memory of it still playing in his head.

_So I’m on my way, and I’m headed right for you_

He whines, hugging his knees against his chest and dropping his head to them, struggling to fight back a full-blown panic attack. He kicks his legs a bit, whining again as his heart speeds up, tears pricking at his eyes.

Fuck, fuck, he’s gonna have an attack.

 _Food and drink helps if The Place puts you in any severe distress, too,_ says the memory of Asia’s voice.

Breathing hard, Danny scrambles for one of the packs, reaching in and grasping for food at random. He pulls out a whoopie pie and crams it into his mouth, pausing for a moment only to force himself to slow down. 

He carefully starts to chew, shaking as he does, trying his best to only focus on the act of eating. He takes a deep breath around his mouthful.

He yelps through his food as his door swings open and someone falls through. Their body is bruised, limp and bent at odd angles, and it takes Danny a moment to realize who he’s looking at. 

“Jordon!” he chokes out as he forces himself to swallow.

His own anxiety forgotten, Danny crawls towards Jordon.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“I won’t,” Dylan says, pressing his hands to his ears as he screws his eyes shut. “I _won’t.”_

“Then you fail,” she says. “Your friends fail. Jordon gets looped. Is that what you want? You want your friends to suffer just to ease your own conscience?”

“No, but -”

“Just do it, Dylan. Get it over with.”

Dylan sobs. It’s right. Fuck, it’s right. He has to do this. For his friends. So he can survive to apologize to his sister again.

“Do it, Dylan. Don’t be a fucking coward.”

He deserves it anyway, doesn’t he?

What goes around comes around.

He raises a trembling hand to his face and lets the magic burst through.

He screams.


	14. Guts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorel swallows. “It’s nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: gore, body horror, throwing up

Jorel steps into a memory.

He trips and falls on his ass, eyes going wide as he looks up at the orange sky. He shifts his leg, his shoe bumping against a can of beer and toppling it over. He blinks down at it as he begins to realize where he is.

“You cool, Rel?” Jorel flinches, swinging his head to look at Aron on his left. Aron’s lanky legs are flung in front of him, one foot absently tapping against Jorel’s. Sigh is sitting on Aron’s other side, shiny purple lipgloss spread across her lips, her brows filled in with sharp black pencil, a tight crop top pressing in around her chest. She’s looking at Jorel disinterestedly, a cigarette between her fingers.

“Rel?” Aron’s foot stills as he turns to get a better view of Jorel, his brow furrowed with concern.

Jorel opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. He closes his mouth. Aron just looks more concerned.

It’s a dissonance, really, considering how much Aron seemed to hate him the last time they spoke.

“What’s up with you?” Sigh drawls, shaking out her gel-slick artificially black hair and peering at him with narrowed blue eyes.

Jorel looks at Aron. Aron’s eyes are scrunched with worry. They stare at each other for a long moment. Sigh sighs (haha) and leans back, tapping her nails against the pavement of the sidewalk they’re sitting on.

“Rel?”

Jorel remembers sitting here on the sidewalk with Aron and Sigh, discussing Aron’s new track, and Jorel had said _It’s got, like, Eminem vibes_ and Aron had laughed and said _Nah, Marshall Mathers ain’t got nothin’ on me._

Instead, Jorel asks, “Why do you care?” Aron blinks at him, brows scrunched like he doesn’t understand. 

“‘Cause you’re my homie,” Aron says easily, bumping his shoulder against Jorel’s. “My ride-or-die. My number one.”

“Aren’t _I_ supposed to be your number one?” Sigh says with a laugh, grinning at Aron.

Aron laughs. “Hey, baby, you know what I meant.” He turns back to Jorel, eyes still sharp with concern. “Wassup, Jay? C’mon, tell Big Deuce.”

_(Jorel grimaced and shook his head with a chuckle. “I fuckin’ hate it when you say that, dude.”)_

Jorel swallows. “It’s nothing.” Except that he isn’t Aron’s ride-or-die anymore, or his number one, or even his homie, and Aron would much rather get hit by a car than have anything to do with Jorel anymore. 

Aron frowns but doesn’t argue, turning his attention back to their beer. 

A booming voice echoes through the streets.

**_SPILL HIS GUTS._ **

Jorel starts violently, whipping his head around to search for whoever spoke to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aron asks, sitting up straight.

“You didn’t hear that?” Jorel’s heart is hammering, frantic.

“Hear what?” Aron blinks at him, eyes big with nerves.

Jorel stares back at him, almost trembling. “I - it’s a weird day today, I -”

“Ah, I get it, man,” Aron says, though his brow remains scrunched. He turns to say something to Sigh, and Jorel turns his own gaze on the pavement in front of him, tries to remind himself that this isn’t real.

_(Jorel grinned when he flipped the skateboard and stuck the landing. Aron whooped in the background, bumping a still-blonde Sigh’s shoulder, shouting, “That’s my best friend!”)_

Jorel swallows.

**_SPILL HIS GUTS._ **

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George and Asia fall together onto an empty street. Behind them is a dead end, in front of them just a long, winding street, disappearing into the horizon, devoid of any houses or businesses. There are lamp posts lined down the sidewalk.

**_FIND WHAT YOU’LL LOSE._ **

Neither of them flinches. They know this too well.

“Looks like we’re off on another treasure hunt,” Asia notes, voice dry.

George smirks without real humor. “Guess so. After you, m’lady.”

Asia laughs and starts down the street.

**_FIND WHAT YOU’LL LOSE._ **

“We’re losing something important, I assume,” Asia says. She just sounds tired now.

George looks around, eyes searching for a clue. “Guess so.”

**_FIND WHAT YOU’LL LOSE._ **

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny drags one of the packs towards Jordon, whose bruises just seem to be getting more and more purple with every second that passes. Danny stops beside him, moving to touch his shoulder lightly. Danny’s fingers brush against a bruise and Jordon groans. Danny winces, drawing his arm back.

He wraps the rest of his whoopie pie in a spare bandana that’s attached to the pack before tearing the pack open and rummaging through it. He pulls out an overstuffed first aid kit, a J drawn in sharpie across its lid. He pops it open and looks to Jordon, biting his lip. Jordon is already sprawled on his back, his shoulders bumpy and uneven like they’ve been dislocated. Okay, Danny can work with that. 

He empties the pack on the floor, a towel falling out along with their food, and rolls it up to stuff it in the crook between Jordon’s upper arm and chest. Danny grabs the towel, rolling it up and stuffing it in the crook of Jordon’s other arm. He bites his lip, thinking hard, and then tugs his own shirt off. He crouches beside Jordon, carefully looping the shirt around Jordon’s arm and shoulder, knotting it in an attempt to keep his arm as tight against the pack as he can. He returns to the packs, digging through in search of something else. When that proves fruitless, he dumps out Dylan and Jordon’s pack, bringing it emptied to Jordon.

He removes the towel from beneath Jordon’s arm, rolling up the pack and replacing the towel with it before wrapping the towel around his arm and shoulder.

Jordon wakes slowly, a pained grunt leaving him as his eyes blink open. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he hisses.

Danny leans over him, a bottle of Gatorade in one hand and a box of Tylenol in the other. “Hey,” he says softly as Jordon whines in pain. Jordon tries to wiggle, and Danny hurriedly flaps a hand at him. “No, no, no, don’t move! Your shoulders are dislocated.”

“Fuck,” Jordon breathes again. “E - everything hurts…”

“I know,” Danny says, because his own joints are aching and burning even though he has his block up fully. “Here.” He sets the box down and retrieves one Tylenol from it. He leans closer, placing the Tylenol on Jordon’s tongue and carefully cupping his face as he pours the Gatorade in.

Jordon chokes it down with a cough, groaning at the way his rib cage rattles. “The… the others…”

“They’re not back yet,” Danny says, ribs aching as a knot of worry forms in his throat. He looks towards the doors. “They’ll be back soon.” He hopes.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The next time that Jorel looks at Aron, Aron’s shirt is pulled up slightly, exposing a strip of his stomach. There’s a small, red line drawn on the skin.

Sigh watches Jorel intently, lifting a McDonald’s cup to her mouth, pressing the straw to her lips. He can’t remember if that cup was in the original memory or not. He stares at her as she drinks from it. 

He looks back to the little cut on Aron’s stomach.

He can’t remember if that was there either.

He shifts, brow furrowing when the cut on Aron’s stomach splits open further.

**_SPILL HIS GUTS._ **

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The sound of Dylan’s door flying open is drowned out by the sound of his violent, throat-tearing screams.

Jordon jolts, crying out when his bones shake with it. Danny jumps to his feet and races towards Dylan’s crumpled form, his own eyes wide and panicked.

“Dylan? Dylan!” Danny drops to his knees beside Dylan, whose screams have died down to unending, ragged groans. Danny grips his shoulders, carefully maneuvering him onto his back. He freezes, jaw dropping as he sees the melted, crackling skin of Dylan’s almost-unrecognizable face. He can smell burnt flesh.

“Oh, shit,” Danny whispers. “Oh, _shit.”_ He’s shaking, heart pounding, his hands cold and trembling. What did the first aid class say about burns? Burns. Burns burns burns burns burns. Burn, cover the burn.

He leaps up, races for the first aid kit. Cover the burn. He hurriedly tears through it, swallowing hard. Cover the burn. He withdraws a small, smooth cloth and races back to Dylan. 

Danny pulls the cloth over the warped side of Dylan’s face, securing it as gently as possible. Jordon cranes his neck as much as he can through the pain, attempting to look, but he can’t get a good view. 

Danny’s hands shake as he tries to remember the class. He needs to elevate it, right? He needs to elevate the burned area.

He grips Dylan by the shoulders and carefully drags him towards Jordon, stopping when Dylan whines. Danny plops down, crossing his legs, and gently places Dylan’s head in his lap, biting his lip as he tries to gauge whether it’s elevated enough.

Dylan falls silent, his breath whistling out in little pained wheezes. Danny bites his lip, looking towards where Jordon lies still and groaning. Danny will go back to him in a minute. He slowly, carefully combs his hand through Dylan’s hair and prays that the others will be here soon.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Neither of them knows how long they walk, but it’s long enough for the blisters on Asia’s feet to crack open.

She hisses, halting George with a hand on his arm. He pauses, watching her with concerned eyes as she leans down to tug her shoe off. She passes it to him and he grips it in one hand while she pulls her bloodied sock off.

George waits patiently for her to inspect her foot. 

**_FIND WHAT YOU’LL LOSE._ **

He sighs and looks around, seeking out something shiny or bizarre or generally obvious. There’s nothing. 

Frowning, he turns his attention back to Asia, and his eyes fall on the white shoe in his hand. 

On the side, scribbled in inky blue sharpie, is a little smiley face, the lines big and exaggerated like a child’s handwriting.

Something clicks.

His blood goes cold.

“Ava,” he breathes. Asia’s head snaps up. “It’s Ava.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  
  


Jorel can only find his voice when he realizes that the cut on Aron’s abdomen is now stretching from his hip to his stomach, wide open and bloody red.

“You good, man?” Aron asks, tossing back another gulp of beer. 

“You have a cut,” Jorel says, feeling rather useless, “in your stomach.”

“Huh?” Aron cranes his neck to look down at his stomach, and Jorel’s eyes follow. He regrets it. 

Blood rolls in little beads and streams down Aron’s hips from the wet, gaping hole in his abdomen. Jorel can see the guts inside glittering in the light of the sunset.

He feels a little sick.

“Ah, jeez,” Aron says, voice annoyed, like when Jorel’s cat had swatted his hand away. “Something’s in there.” He looks at Jorel. “Could ya fish it out?”

But Jorel can’t tear his eyes away from the mass of knotted flesh beneath the blood. “I - what,” he croaks. He doesn’t know how he could even open his mouth without vomiting. He watches the lines of Aron’s gut slide together.

“Could ya get it out?” Aron asks, still as casual as always. 

Jorel finally turns to stare at Aron’s face, lip quivering, throat burning. “What.”

Aron rolls his eyes.

**_SPILL HIS GUTS._ **

It clicks.

“No,” Jorel whispers, horrified, _“fuck no._ I’m not - you can’t -”

“Jorel,” Sigh says with a sigh (haha, he thinks, a little hysterically), “you can’t just let your friends get looped. That’s not cool.”

“I’m not touching your fucking guts!” Jorel shouts, leaping to his feet. “That’s not - you can’t make me.”

“It’s not very comfy, dude,” Aron says.

“You’d doom all your friends just because you’re squeamish?” Sigh asks, one brow raised. “You know they can all die if I want them to, right?”

Jorel freezes, body going cold. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Sigh says easily, though Jorel knows she’s not Sigh anymore. “I _have._ It’s not hard.”

“You’d - you’d kill them?”

“Naturally,” she says. “You’re in _my_ domain now. I could do anything I wanted to you.”

“That’s - fuck.” Jorel sits down hard, hands shaking. His voice is hollow when he speaks again. “...I have to reach inside, don’t I.”

“You already know that.”

Jorel inhales sharply. “Fuck.”

“Just get it over with,” Sigh says, shaking her McDonald’s cup and rattling the ice inside. “Don’t be a punk.”

“Fuck.” Jorel moves his hand, refusing to look at Aron’s stomach as he hovers his hand over it. He screws his eyes shut. Pushes down.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George and Asia’s door crashes open as they come racing through. Danny and Jordon flinch violently, Jordon wheezing in pain. “Guys!” George shouts, halting when Danny shakes his head fervently. George looks between Dylan and Jordon, his brow furrowing. Asia purses her lips.

“Ah, fuck,” George hisses as he moves towards Jordon. 

“George,” Asia says, “are we going to talk about -”

“Later.”

Asia frowns, but accepts it. With a weary sigh, she moves towards Danny and Dylan.

“Are you alright?” Danny asks, chewing his lip, his eyes wide as he scans her for injuries. “The simulation, did it -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Asia mutters, though her face is strained, worried. Afraid. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel gasps as he reaches into Aron’s abdomen, pushing his fingers through warm, slippery intestines. They cling to his hand, almost suctioning, and Jorel’s eyes fly open as he bends over, his throat burning, watching his own vomit splatter all over the pavement. He pushes his hand in deeper as wet, quivering flesh pushes back, oozing around his arm.

His fingers close around something cold and solid and he sobs as he tugs it. His arm is yanked loose with a wet squelch, and he clutches the item to his chest, his breath quickening as he rocks back and forth, the smell of human meat and coppery blood clinging to him, his arm drenched in blood and gore. 

“Sigh” laughs as Jorel dry heaves on the pavement. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She snaps her fingers, and as Jorel tilts sideways and tumbles back to his friends, he catches sight of Aron’s intestines trailing across the pavement.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jorel’s door flies open and he tumbles through on his hands and knees, a piece of metal falling from his hand and rolling across the floor. He’s hyperventilating, his left arm coated with globby, sticky blood. Asia reaches down to pick up the metal, propping up Dylan’s head as Danny jumps up to rush to Jorel. She lifts it to her face.

It’s a little metal kaleidoscope, coated with blood, buzzing with power in her hand.

Danny drops to his knees beside Jorel, one hand outstretched, as a loud creak sounds through The Place, a doorway opening.

They’ve won. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Reese slides the key into the lock, frowning to herself when it sticks as she tries to twist it. She tries again. It doesn’t budge. She sighs and pulls the key out, wiping it off with her fingers and pushing it back in. She twists it. It sticks. With a growing annoyance, she jimmies the key, pushing down and praying that it won’t break.

There’s a click, and the key loosens as it finally turns in the lock. Letting out a relieved sigh, she pulls the key out and slips it into her pocket. She pushes the door open and slips inside, closing it behind her with a soft click.

She throws her purse to the floor and kicks her shoes off, moving towards the little bowl in the kitchen for her to toss her keys into. She sighs and throws them in, reaching up to tug her headband off. She doesn’t particularly enjoy the night shift. She shakes her hair out, pulls her phone out to throw onto the table. 

It takes a little while for her to settle in. It’s the same routine as always; change out of her scrubs, microwave a quick meal, wash her makeup off, shower, brush her teeth. Once she’s done, she pulls the curtains shut, bathing her room in darkness as she fluffs up her pillows and blankets. 

She checks her phone briefly and then crawls into bed. It’s when she’s already there, already drifting off to sleep, that she remembers the dream.

Not a dream. The Place. She was actually… inside it.

_Danny._

Reese turns to lie on her back, staring up at the ceiling. He’s going to meet her soon. He’s really going to meet her.

She really did fail.

She closes her eyes.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“I swear to god,” Jeff grumbles as his phone begins to ring. He pushes himself out from beneath the car, tossing his wrench to the side and wiping his oil-slick hands on his stomach. 

He fumbles for the phone, glaring down at the _UNKNOWN NUMBER_ printed across the screen. He answers it begrudgingly. “Hello?”

“Jeffrey.” Oh, great, this dude again. “Have you found the talisman yet?”

“Nope,” Jeff says, popping the ‘p’. “Been kinda busy.”

“Find it. Now.”

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Right, of course, let me just manifest that.”

“Jeffrey. You know what I’m gonna do if you don’t find it before Terrell does.”

“Yeah, I do, and I don’t believe you.”

The voice growls. “Watch yourself, Jeffrey.” The phone clicks as they hang up.

Jeff rolls his eyes and tosses the phone aside as he goes back for his wrench. Jordon better be a fucking government operative if Jeff’s dealing with this much bullshit to keep his paws off this shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also mental + physical health has been kinda screwed lately so sorry if chapters slow down a bit again!


	15. The Woman Who Wasn’t Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George has some questions for Jordon.

They fall back to earth. 

Dylan’s face snaps back to normal, Jordon’s body smoothing out and his bones popping back into place, the blood disappearing from Jorel’s arm.

Only, Jordon is still groaning, and Jorel is hyperventilating, and Dylan is _sobbing,_ and Danny’s starting to panic because Jordon’s fatigue is weighing him down and Jorel’s disgust and horror is sickening him and Dylan is ashamed and heartbroken and self-loathing and afraid and oh god Danny can’t do this.

“Danny, focus!” George snaps as he rushes over to Jorel.

“Aahahahahaha,” Danny says, his heart hammering.

George sighs. “Danny,” he says, struggling to keep his voice softer, “I’ll get Jorel, just focus on Dylan. Asia’ll get Jordon.”

“Guh,” Danny mutters, but he obeys, shuffling over to Dylan and dropping beside him as Asia moves to Jordon.

Dylan is curled up tight, sobbing into his knees, and Danny doesn’t know what to do. His own heart is racing like he’s slammed down three cups of coffee, or three energy drinks, or something worse. Jorel and Dylan’s collective panic rings through his veins. He swallows hard, fighting back tears, and wraps his arms around Dylan.

Dylan leans against him, body shaking with his sobs, and Danny squeezes.

“So,” Jordon coughs out to Asia as his energy slowly returns, “you come here often?”

She laughs, lightly slapping him on the shoulder. Jordon smirks before closing his eyes, letting out an exhausted sigh.

“Hey, Jorel,” George says, his hands hovering over Jorel’s shoulders as he crouches in front of Jorel, who’s gasping for air. “Jorel, look at me.”

Jorel slowly moves his head, his face pale as he looks up at George with wide brown eyes. He’s shaking all over, his chest fluttering with rapid movements.

“Jorel, breathe with me,” George says, carefully taking Jorel’s hand and pressing it to his own chest. “Breathe.” He takes in a slow, deep breath. Jorel stares at him, taking in a hesitant breath, his chest barely swelling with it. He lets it out in a short puff. George nods. It’s a start. “There we go.” George takes another breath. Jorel mimics him.

Danny combs his fingers through Dylan’s hair, his fingers catching on a knot as Dylan’s sobs slowly die down to whimpers. Dylan makes a soft noise, breathing hard. Danny’s veins are still jumping and twitching in his body, a buzzy feeling beneath his skin. His heart won’t slow down. Dylan sucks in a loud, stuffy snort, and Danny can feel wet tears and snot on his chest.

Right, he doesn’t have a shirt on.

Wait. It’s night time. It’s cold out.

Oh _god,_ now he’s aware of it.

Jordon groans at the lingering ache in his shoulders, slowly pushing himself up until he’s mostly sitting. He flops onto Asia’s shoulder and she takes his weight without complaining, allowing him to lean on her. His eyes slip shut again.

Asia sighs and looks out at the others, the panic in the cool night air beginning to dull.

When Jordon opens his eyes again, Randi - the actual Randi - is crouched in front of him, one hand on Jordon’s arm, her eyes big and worried, and Jordon could almost weep with relief. George’s eyes stray to them for just a moment.

Jorel sucks in shaky breaths in time with George, tears pricking at his eyes as he digs his nails into his palms. He swallows hard, shutting his eyes and trying to push away the memory of his simulation.

George leans back, watching Jorel tremble and take slow, careful breaths. He sighs, releasing Jorel’s hand, and slowly moves to sit beside him.

Jorel swallows again. Takes another shaky breath. George stays silent, letting him calm down.

Dylan gasps in another wet, trembling breath before peeling his face away from Danny’s shivering chest. Dylan slowly opens his gummed-up eyes and looks at Danny.

Dylan blinks. “Dude,” he says, voice hoarse, “when did you take your shirt off?”

Danny freezes as everyone’s eyes turn to him, realization on their faces like they’re only now noticing. Dylan’s eyes fall on the scars on Danny’s torso, and he frowns.

“Dude.” Jordon’s voice is slow, tired. “You’re _jacked.”_

Danny blushes fiercely. “I’m - that’s - canIpleasehavemyshirt?”

Asia raises a brow at him, tugging the shirt out from beneath Jordon and tossing it to Danny, who hurriedly tugs it on as the others stare at him. He winces at the feeling of it pressing Dylan’s… _goop_ against his chest.

Still. Not the point. He shakes his head and looks at Dylan. “Are you alright?”

Dylan nods slowly, blinking hard. “Yeah, just -” He coughs. “Bad memories.” His eyes go distant, unfocused.

Danny nods. He gets that.

Jorel clears his throat. “I had to reach into someone’s guts,” he mutters. The others freeze.

 _“What?”_ Danny asks, high-pitched. Jordon looks sick.

“Literally?” Dylan’s own trauma is forgotten in the face of _that,_ his face scrunched with disgust _._ “That’s so fucking nasty.”

Jorel buries his face in his knees with a groan.

“You ‘n George seem pretty well off,” Jordon mumbles to Asia. She exchanges a look with George, fear gripping both their hearts.

“We argued,” Asia says, trying to push down her own fear, a lump in her throat. She says nothing else, and Jordon doesn’t ask.

George swallows hard, trying to shut out the thought of _her,_ his heart on the verge of going crazy in his chest. His attention is drawn by the faint shape of a person sitting beside Jordon. Jordon’s eyes slide to it. George’s own eyes narrow.

 _(NOT ONLY DO YOU HAVE A CHANCE OF GETTING YOUR FRIEND BACK… HE HAS A CHANCE OF GETTING_ HIS _FRIEND BACK.)_

George has some questions for Jordon.

It’s silent for a long, long while.

“What do we do now?” Jorel asks, lifting his head. 

No one answers for a bit.

“Well,” Asia says at last, lifting the blood-stained kaleidoscope in her hand, “we figure out what this is for.”

Danny clears his throat. Everyone turns to him. 

He eases himself down until he’s sitting properly, crossing his legs. “Um… when we were in there the first time, there was this… well, not the real person, I guess, but there was a woman.” He bites his lip. “I didn’t know her, but she said she was important to me. That I didn’t remember her.” He shifts. “So I, uh… saw her again just now, but she didn’t have the - the yellow-eye thing going on, and she said to meet her at my favorite coffee shop on Sunday, so I - well, that’s tomorrow, so -”

“We’re going with you,” George cuts in, before the others can even process what Danny’s said. “We can wait away from you if you want privacy, but there’s no way in hell we’re letting you out of our sights. You can’t trust a damn thing in that Place.”

Danny blinks. “I - I kinda thought you were gonna tell me not to go at all. Thank you.”

“Well, I can’t stop you,” George says. He looks towards Asia. She nods. “And it might be our best lead.”

“We’ll need sleep,” Asia murmurs. “I think we’re all exhausted.”

“You guys can, uh…” Jordon slurs. He takes a moment to find his train of thought. Randi taps at his arm. “...stay at my place t’night.”

“Okay,” Danny says softly. “I’ll, uh… drive us.”

“Alright,” George says, looking at the contents of their packs strewn across the grass. That’s one thing that _does_ carry over from The Place. “Let’s just clean up first.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


George ends up having to carry Jordon inside. 

Dylan leans on Danny as they head up to the front door, his bones heavy with post-cry sleepiness. Jorel shuffles alongside them, the memory of intestines against his hand still fresh in his mind. George is carrying Jordon bridal style, his own lips pressed into a thin line. 

“My key...” Jordon mumbles, blinking through sleep-heavy eyes. “‘S in the pack… in the - uh… front pocket..”

Asia scrambles for the pack, flipping the pocket open and rummaging through. “A-ha!” She withdraws the key and steps up to the door to unlock it.

They shuffle in single-file.

“Jesus,” George mutters as he takes in the collection of soft things on the couch. “That’s… a lot.”

“His bedroom’s down the hall,” Dylan mumbles. “It’s the last on the left.”

“Thank you,” George says before carrying Jordon down the hall, shouldering open the bedroom door. He sighs at the sight of another extremely large assortment of stuffed animals and pillows and blankets. “Of course.” He moves to set Jordon down.

As George lays Jordon down onto the overcrowded bed and begins to pull the blanket over him, Jordon slurs, “Tuckin’ me in? Are we... boyfr’nds now?” George lets out a long sigh. Jordon falls asleep before he can respond.

“God,” George groans. Jordon snores peacefully.

George shuffles back into the living room, where Danny and Asia are dragging the pillows and blankets from the couch and piling them together on the floor as Dylan and Jorel sit off to the side, staring blankly at each other.

They fluff up their materials before settling down, Jorel curling up into a tight ball at the edge of the group, rolling himself up in a blanket. Dylan sprawls out on his stomach beside Jorel, slinging one leg over Danny’s, who’s curled up with one pillow stuffed beneath his head. Asia takes the couch, pulling one thin blanket up over herself. George stretches out before collapsing on the opposite edge of the group, grumbling to himself as he curls up.

It takes a while for anyone to fall asleep.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jordon wakes up in his own bed, stuffed animals piled around his body, and for a second the thought occurs to him that maybe he’s dreamt up the past few days, and he’s still alone in this house with no real touch but the warmth of pillows and blankets. He kinda wants to cry. 

“Jordon,” Randi mumbles as she leans over him. “Jordon, it’s real.”

He wants to believe her, but she isn’t real either. She leans back, face hurt, and he feels awful for it. “Sorry,” he whispers before pushing himself up and shuffling down the hall with Randi in tow. 

The bundles on his couch are splayed across the floor instead, and there’s three men laying on them, and there’s a woman sleeping on the couch, and he wasn’t imagining things. Randi hums triumphantly.

He smiles to himself, shuffling into the kitchen. Danny makes a small noise as he passes, shifting in his sleep. Dylan grumbles and rolls over. Jorel snorts. Jordon smiles wider as he slips into the kitchen.

George is at the table, a bowl of Fruity Pebbles sitting untouched in front of him as he stares out Jordon’s kitchen window. 

Jordon looks at him, thinks of him rushing to help Jorel, and he can’t find it in himself to be afraid anymore. Randi perches herself on the edge of the table, smiling up at Jordon.

“Hi,” Jordon says, voice hoarse with sleep.

George’s eyes cut to him. “Hey,” he says. “Perfect timing.”

Jordon blinks, mind still fuzzy with sleep. “For what?”

“A discussion,” George says, “about _that.”_ He points to Randi. Randi freezes. Jordon’s blood goes cold.

“You - what.”

“Jordon,” Randi whispers, eyes wide as she stares at George. George seems to stare back. “J - Jordon, he can see me.”

“You can’t see her,” Jordon whispers. “You - that’s not -”

“Her?” George frowns. He keeps his voice quiet. “Jordon, there’s an outline of a person always following you. What are you seeing that I can’t?”

Jordon squares his shoulders, baring his teeth as his skin buzzes with panic. “You - you can’t - none of your _business.”_ His voice is starting to raise. George gets to his feet and moves to the door leading from the kitchen to the patio. 

“Let’s step outside,” George says, voice still hushed, face carefully controlled. “I don’t want to wake the others up.”

Jordon swallows but shuffles over to George as he opens the door, Randi following behind with wide, shocked eyes.

They step outside.

“What the fuck, man?” Jordon almost shouts as George shuts the door. “How - how do you - I don’t -” His heart is racing in his chest. Randi is still, silent.

“Jordon, calm down,” George snaps. “I’m just trying to get an answer.”

Jordon takes a deep breath, struggling to keep his anxiety under control. “Fine. Fine.”

“There’s the outline of a person always following you around,” George repeats, eyes searching. “What is it?”

“She’s not an _it,”_ Jordon snaps. “Her name is Randi and she’s my friend.”

George blinks. He’s silent for a long, long moment. “Your friend?”

Jordon presses his lips into a thin line, crossing his arms. “She’s my… imaginary friend.” He looks at George’s stunned face. “I’ve had her for a long, long time.” He scowls. “She was my friend long before any of you were.”

“Imaginary…?” George shakes his head. Randi bites her lip, rocking on her feet. “Jordon, whatever that - _she_ is, she’s not imaginary.”

Jordon stares. He looks to Randi. She looks back, eyes round. “What are you talking about?” Jordon asks, dread weighing on his chest.

But George’s answer isn’t condemnation. “She has to be magic. Pretty powerful magic too. That’s the only explanation I can think of.”

Jordon and Randi stare at each other. 

“That’s not… I’m not real,” Randi says.

“She’s not real,” Jordon repeats.

“She’s not,” George says, “but her magic is.”

They stand in silence. George looks out at the street nearby, watching cars eke their way down. He turns back to Jordon, who’s watching Randi without speaking. George can’t see Randi’s pursed lips.

“So,” George says, and Jordon starts. “Can I ask, uh… Randi some -”

The door clicks open, startling all three of them.

Dylan, eyes bleary and dead, leans out of the door, wrapped up in a blanket. “Everyone okay?”

“Yes,” George says, “we’ll be right in.”

Dylan looks to Jordon. Jordon nods. Dylan slips back inside, shutting the door behind him. 

George and Jordon stare at each other. “Shall we?” George asks. Jordon nods. They head inside, a still-stunned Randi trailing behind them.

Dylan is pouring himself a bowl of Cookie Crisp. George observes him, taking in the sight of his sad face, his shaking hands. 

“Do you wanna talk about what happened in your simulation?” George asks. Dylan shakes his head. George purses his lips but leaves it alone. He returns to the now-soggy Fruity Pebbles on the table as Jordon moves to the pantry, rummaging through it for a breakfast treat.

Danny shuffles in, blinking sleep from his eyes, his face dazed and tired. “Jorel’s still asleep,” he rasps. “Um… should we head to the coffee shop after breakfast?”

George shrugs as he spoons soggy cereal into his mouth. “Sure.”

Danny nods and moves to the fridge, looking through it in hopes of finding fruit. There’s nothing. He sighs and aims for a box of cereal instead.

Jorel joins them halfway through their silent eating, dragging his feet on the floor, Asia following behind. Asia easily pulls together her food and joins the others at the table, watching them with keen eyes. Jorel considers eating something, but then the memory of _guts_ returns and he finds that he can barely even look at the others’ food.

He perches himself on the counter instead, and waits until it’s time to leave.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Danny hesitates in the parking lot, biting his lip as he grips the steering wheel.

“What’s wrong?” Jordon asks. 

“Just… nervous,” Danny mumbles. His own anxiety isn’t helped by the sadness rolling from Dylan, the disgust from Jorel, the desperately held together fear from George and Asia. He swallows. He switches the car off and slips the key into his pocket, sliding out of the car. The others follow.

The barista Alice’s grin when she first sees Danny quickly turns into wide-eyed surprise when she sees the group bustling in behind him. 

“Wow,” she says, peering at Danny. “You got a lot of friends.”

Danny gives her an awkward smile, ignoring the fluttery feeling from her, and hurriedly orders a round of coffee and pastries, assisted by the others and their… somewhat loud orders.

She winks at Danny, turning to the other barista in the back. “Hey, Jake! Let’s do this!”

They end up crowding around one bar-like table, the other customers giving them annoyed looks. 

By the time they get their orders, Danny is close to exploding from nervousness. His own heart is beating, and Dylan’s heart hurts, and Jorel is taking slow, tiny bites of his croissant, and George and Asia are looking at each other like they’re terrified, and oh god Danny’s stressed out.

“Danny.”

The entire table goes still. 

Danny turns slowly. 

Standing there, one hand holding a coffee cup, is the woman from The Place. Theresa.

“Hi,” she says, and her voice is soft. She looks at the others’ stunned faces. “Could we talk alone?”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Jeff’s attempts to speak to Chelsea are thwarted by a cat.

It’s a very pissy cat apparently, growling at him from the sidewalk in front of the ramen place, its back arched as its hackles rise. Its face is split into two colors, its eyes angry and devoid of any good cheer.

Jeff takes a step back.

“Hey,” he says slowly, “calm down, cat, I’m just trying to talk to someone about some shit, okay? None of your business.” 

He moves for the front door.

The cat yowls and lunges at his legs, slashing and biting. He shrieks and runs back.

The cat snarls up at him, lashing its tail. Jeff growls and moves further away from it.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Be that way.” He turns around and starts down the street.

A gust of wind knocks into his back so hard it throws him to the ground.

He takes a deep breath, fists clenched as he lies on the pavement. God, now he’s just pissed off.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


They seat themselves at a table in the corner of the store as the others watch from Danny’s original table.

Danny stares at Theresa. Theresa stares back.

“So…” Danny says, throat tight with anxiety. “You’re… important to me. Apparently.”

Theresa takes a deep breath, her finger ringing the lid of her cup. “Right,” she says. “Right.” She shakes her head. “I was hoping I’d never have to have this conversation.” She lets out a pained, strangled sigh.

Danny’s heart is pounding. “What? I - who are you?”

She takes another breath. “Guess there’s no way to dance around it.” She looks him in the eye. He bites his lip. “Danny. When you were dying…” Danny’s heart stops beating. “I was your ferryman.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	16. Don’t Pay the Ferryman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happened three years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: talk of serious past violence, trauma
> 
> quarantine has made writing more difficult for me so it’s coming along a little slowly BUT here’s this!! it’s short but i’ve been so excited for this chapter ever since i first started this story

It happened three years ago, when Danny was 21. It had been all over the news, for a bit at least.

_Woman Stabs Boyfriend 57 Times In Attempted Murder._

Her name had been Lilly, and for some time Danny had thought she was the love of his life. She had been, actually, until the day came that her mugshots were in the news and Danny was in the ICU.

No one knew how he survived. No one thought he would. His heart stopped three times. They almost called it on the third time, but the doctor that day had been particularly persistent, and somehow, some way, Danny’s heart started again.

She’s in prison now. Far away from him, really, except sometimes he still wakes up in the middle of the night and thinks she’s on top of him and there’s a knife in his side, and he’s dying on the kitchen floor. He never is, of course. She’s never there.

His mother had cried for the entirety of her first visit, and even the nurses looked scared, but Danny didn’t think there was any way they could feel as afraid as he did. His mother had given him money afterwards, trying to help him get back on his feet, but he had shut her out as quickly as he could, left the money untouched until he met the guys. She probably cried even harder when he did that.

But Danny was afraid.

Danny _is_ afraid.

“Danny,” Theresa says, reaching for his hand, her face worried, and he almost remembers her now. A hand on his while he faded in and out of consciousness, kind and comforting words spoken into his ear as he died again and again, a brown-haired nurse with blood-soaked scrubs. 

He can feel tears pricking at his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he whispers, though he thinks maybe he does. His heart is numb in his chest, his hands fuzzy with it, and he thinks he’s going to scream. His throat is tight, his eyes wide.

Theresa swallows. “I… provide comfort and kindness to those who are dying, and guide them into death.”

“And I was dying,” Danny murmurs, and then his lungs are too tight for him to breathe. He tries anyway, the skin on the back of his neck burning. There are tears on his face. He doesn’t want to die again.

“Danny, you’re not dying right now,” Theresa says softly. She grips his hand. “Breathe.”

And he does. Her voice soothes him, eases his heart. He takes a deep breath, the numbness subsiding. It doesn’t go away completely, nor do the tears, but it’s more than he’s used to.

He sniffles, trembling. “I - so you - you…”

“Comforted you,” Theresa says. “I comforted you. Only…” _Her_ hands are shaking now. “I made a mistake.”

He stares at her, heart beginning to hammer in his ears again. “What? What?”

“When you were almost dead, I told you… I -” She swallows. “When - when we die, our magic expels into the world around us. It tends to transfer into random people, to boost their magic. But I told you… sometimes when people are lucid as they die, or even if they’re not dying, they can choose who to give pieces of their magic to. Only… it’s a big thing, and it draws a lot of attention. You don’t want to do it when you’re alive.”

Danny listens, drawn into a strange sort of calm as she speaks, his heart beginning to slow once more. “Was - was telling me the mistake?”

“No.” Theresa takes a breath. “I mean, in a way, I guess it was, but… No, you said you wanted to choose _me_ to give a piece of your magic to. I said no, but you wanted me to so badly, and you - you’re such a good person. It felt unkind to turn down that offer from someone so good. So I… let you. I thought you were going to die.” She bites her lip. “But you lived. You lived, and I tried to give it back, but it was too late. The attention was drawn.”

Danny stares, dread weighing on his chest. “I - I don’t understand.”

“The Place,” she says, and Danny’s shoulders sag with the weight of something he thinks he already knew. “The Place. It found you because of the power of the transfer.” She bites her lip. “If you had died, it would’ve just written it off as a loss, but you…”

“So the person went after me,” Danny says slowly, the pieces clicking together in his mind. “It… put me on his radar.”

“Yes,” Theresa says. “Yes, it did. He… he wouldn’t have known you existed otherwise.” Danny stares at her, a hollow feeling in his chest. “I made it my mission to protect you, to make up for my mistake, to keep you from being drawn in, but I… I failed you. It got you anyway.” They stare at each other. Danny doesn’t know what to say. “I was the one who rattled the plates here,” Theresa murmurs, “because George was almost here and I needed to scare you away. And then I walked outside your house to scare you away, because of the house about to burn down, but it didn’t work, so I left you the note.” She squeezes her eyes shut, releasing his hand and pressing the heels of her palms to her temples. “...But The Place got you anyway.”

Danny sits in his new knowledge, his heart heavy and tired in his chest. He provoked Lilly. He couldn’t fight her off. He brought his own death. He made the choice to give Theresa his magic. That choice put him on The Place’s radar. “So this is all my fault,” he murmurs, lips numb, and he knows he’s right.

Theresa gapes at him, her eyes wide. “Your - no! It’s _my_ fault! I let you do it.”

“But I did it.” Danny’s crying again. “I - I did it. I made her mad, and I drew the attention, and I -” Oh, _god,_ what if this was all what led to him meeting the guys? What if he put them in harm’s way, too? “Fuck,” he hisses, ripping a napkin from the holder and pressing it to his eyes, his hands shaking. He didn’t mean for this to happen.

“Danny, _listen to me,”_ Theresa says firmly, though she looks very much like she’s on the verge of tears, too. “Danny, this wasn’t your fault.”

“But -”

“Danny, I swear to god,” Theresa says, blinking hard. “You can’t blame yourself for everything.”

Danny winces, looks away. Thinks of a sweet girl who only turned vicious with _him_ , who only buried a knife in _his_ torso, who only hated _him._ He turned her evil.

Danny presses a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob, tears sliding down his face, his scars aching with remembered heat. Theresa stares at him with wide, worried eyes.

“Danny,” she whispers, “Danny, breathe.”

He tries to speak, but he can only choke. His lungs squeeze, his vision beginning to tunnel. Oh god, he’s gonna die.

“Danny?” someone says.

“I think he’s having a panic attack,” Theresa says, looking with wide eyes towards Dylan. 

“Shit,” Dylan breathes. He turns back. “George, we need help.” 

George jumps to his feet and rushes over as Danny devolves into tears, gasping for breath, and crouches down in front of him. Theresa gets up from her seat and joins George, placing one hand on Danny’s shoulder. 

“Danny,” George says softly, “breathe with me.”

A cat watches from outside the window, a letter held within its mouth. It turns and darts away.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


_Addressed to:_

_  
Matthew Busek_

_8550 Frye Rd._

_Hi, Mr. Busek! So sorry for the lack of a return address, I’m afraid it might be a little scary for you haha. Something is going to happen to your little town soon, and as I understand you are the powerful one of your town, I’d recommend contacting these men, as they may be able to help you. I’ve attached their contact information and addresses below. Happy national clown day! Honk honk!_

_Signed,_

_A Friend_

_P.S.: Unreality is such an unpleasant thing. Did you know Ibuprofen helps with magic-related hallucinations? It’s really so very strange. Make sure to stock up! You never know when reality might fail you. Xoxo_

_George Ragan._

_33311 Monarch Ave._  
  


_Jorel Decker._

_Bloodred Recording Studio, 4770 Kids’ Cir._

_Jordon Terrell._

_4462 Petty St._

_Dylan Alvarez._

_832 Memory Pl. Apt 308._

_Danny Murillo._

_6571 Romantic St._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like this is a good time to mention that reese’s part here was inspired by the time i saw her name and internally made the pun “grim reeseper”


	17. Stirrings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s then that he finally notices the contact information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO sorry that this took so long and that the chapter itself isn’t of a huge portion. writing has been difficult as of late ;-;

Danny chokes in ragged breaths, shuddering as he screws his eyes shut. Asia and the other guys are crowded near him, watching with anxious eyes as George guides his breaths. Theresa squeezes his shoulder.

“Okay,” Danny gasps. “Okay, ‘m okay… ‘m okay.”

“You sure?” George asks, eyes narrowing. Danny bobs his head. George gets to his feet and turns to Theresa. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” Danny mumbles, cutting off Theresa’s attempt to answer. “She’s my friend.” Theresa looks at him, surprise clear on her face.

“Really?” George asks, eyes narrowed. “Are you sure about that?”

“She is,” Danny says. His eyes are vacant but determined. “I promise.”

George glares at her. Theresa meets his eyes, unwavering. “Forgive me for being a little paranoid,” he grumbles. 

On cue, Dylan, voice still hoarse, mutters, “It’s like I’m paranoid, looking over my back, it’s like a whirlwind inside of my head, it’s like I -”

“Bro,” Jordon cuts in. “Bro, is that Linkin Park?”

Dylan beams, for the first time in a little while. “Oh my god, dude, you know it?”

“Bro,” Jordon whispers. “Bro…”

“Bro.”

“Can you two stop for one second?” George snaps.

“You can’t stop love,” Jorel mumbles, and Jordon bursts into laughter, Dylan grinning softly beside him. Danny cracks a weak smile, a dull bit of light shining in his eyes again. It’s a relief to all of them.

“My name’s Theresa,” Theresa says, ignoring Jordon and Dylan’s antics. “I’m not trying to step on your toes. I’m just trying to help Danny.”

George stares at her, distrust in his eyes. Asia steps forward, shouldering her way beside George. Theresa turns her eyes on her. “You can keep helping Danny,” Asia says, putting her hands on her hips. “By helping us.” 

Theresa blinks. “And… how do you want me to help?”

“Well.” Asia pulls the kaleidoscope out. “You can start by helping us figure out what the _fuck_ this is.” She flips the kaleidoscope in her hand. “Then… we’ll go from there. We get your help, and you can keep an eye on Danny.” Her eyes cut towards Danny, concern tinting her face. She looks back to Theresa. “Deal?”

Theresa’s eyes go distant and contemplative, her lips pursing. She looks at Danny. Danny’s staring at the ground, eyes empty. Dylan reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. Theresa frowns. Looks back at Asia. Asia watches her, patient.

“Yeah,” Theresa says. “Deal.”

“I hope we can trust you, Theresa,” George says, voice gruff. Asia rolls her eyes.

“Just Reese is fine,” Theresa says. “I hope I can trust you, too, Ragan.”

George narrows his eyes. “You know my name?”

“I do,” Reese says. 

He sighs. “Not the weirdest thing to happen, I guess,” he mutters. “Alright, Reese. At least we’re agreed.”

“We are.” She smooths her skirt with a sigh. “So where do you go from here? Or _we,_ I guess I should say.”

Asia looks towards Danny, who’s currently attempting to smile at Dylan’s Snoop Dogg impression. “Once everyone’s okay,” she says, looking towards George, “there’s someone we need to find.” 

Reese nods, a determined glint in her eye.

Somewhere not that far away, a letter reaches its recipient.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The “town” of Sunset is too small to really be considered a town: there’s only around five hundred people. Everyone seems to know everyone, to such a degree that outsiders might feel very out of place. Aron, as an outsider, can confirm that. 

It’s also probably the weirdest place he’s ever been. At least out of the _real_ places he’s been. From the moment he stepped into the town, he could feel the magic, the power. It’s almost fictional, really. There’s even rumors of a murderer living in the grassy hills outside of town, like some fucked up fantasy story.

Everyone in town is nice enough, though. The town “support guy”, as he calls himself - a man named Matt - was the only one that Aron didn’t like at first. He’s a little grumpy, defensive, stubborn, but he still grew on Aron fairly quickly. There’s also Chelsea, a woman who, in hindsight, would defeat the “only one” part about Matt because she pisses Aron off. 

Aside from them, a cool guy named Jimmy Yuma was fast friends with Aron from the start, and if Aron didn’t know what it was like to have a _true_ best friend, he could almost say that Yuma is one.

Don’t think about it.

Today he’s sitting with Yuma at a table in the local ice cream shop, milkshakes plunked onto the table between them. The shop is run by a girl named Crystal, a cheerful and bubbly woman. Her smile reminds him of Sigh.

 _Wow, I’m reminiscing today._ Aron scowls down at his milkshake.

“You good?” Yuma asks, blinking at him.

Aron nods. “Yee, man, ‘s all good.” He takes a sip of his shake.

The shop’s doors fly open and Matt storms in, a paper clutched in his hand. Aron and Yuma stare in unison as he makes his way towards their table.

“Aron,” he says, in that hoarse, raspy voice, “I need to talk to you.” He throws Yuma an apologetic glance. “In private.”

Aron looks to Yuma, who simply waves his hand dismissively. “Go ahead,” Yuma says.

Aron pushes himself to his feet, taking his milkshake in one hand. Matt nods, spinning around and moving for the doors. Aron trails behind.

“Wassup?” Aron asks, once they’re outside in the cool air. Brian is standing across the street, filming everyone as they pass. 

“I got this letter,” Matt says, turning to Aron and holding the paper out. Aron takes it hesitantly, unsure as to why Matt’s coming to _him_ with this. He lifts the letter to his face.

_Hi, Mr. Busek! So sorry for the lack of a return address, I’m afraid it might be a little scary for you haha. Something is going to happen to your little town soon, and as I understand you are the powerful one of your town, I’d recommend contacting these men, as they may be able to help you. I’ve attached their contact information and addresses below. Happy national clown day! Honk honk!_

_P.S.: Unreality is such an unpleasant thing. Did you know Ibuprofen helps with magic-related hallucinations? It’s really so very strange. Make sure to stock up! You never know when reality might fail you. Xoxo_

“The fuck…?” Aron mutters. “‘Happy national clown day’? ‘Magic-related hallucinations’?” 

“Weird, huh?” Matt says.

Aron shakes his head, looking up at Matt. “Why are you showing this to me?”

“There’s something on you,” Matt says. “...I don’t know if you believe in magic, but I can feel it all over you.”

Aron tenses, squaring his shoulders, fear lancing through his veins, memories of -

“C’mon, man, do you have to hit me with that?” he drawls, swallowing.

“Look,” Matt says, “if something is gonna happen… might as well have help.”

“Right,” Aron says. He bites his lip and looks back down at the paper. It’s then that he finally notices the contact information.

_George Ragan._

_Jorel Decker._

Jorel Decker.

Jorel Decker.

Jorel. Decker.

Jorel.

_(“Relly, look!” Aron cried as he picked up a little ball of fluff, holding a squirming kitten out to Jorel. “Look at this shit!” And Jorel had smiled so wide.)_

Jorel.

Fuck.

He swallows. “Y - yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, I can help.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


See, how is Jeff supposed to figure out where the goddamn talisman is? What’s he supposed to do, just magically manifest it? Last he heard, it was buried six feet under in a witch’s coffin, and he heard that from _Jordon._ Jordon, who is undoubtedly ahead of Jeff in this dumbass search.

What's it even supposed to do? What does this guy need it for? What does _Jordon_ need it for? Does he have some magical secret? Jeff thought Jordon was just going to pawn it off, but that’s looking less likely.

God, he hates this fucking magic shit.

So he can’t talk to Chelsea yet. That’s fine. He’ll find one of Jordon’s other contacts.

He huffs and carries on down the sidewalk. He’ll find the talisman. 

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


When Danny was little, his mother always told him that it’s better to be the heartbroken than to be the heartbreaker. Better to be the hurt than to be the cruel. And Danny can still agree with that, for the most part. 

But turns out being heartbroken _really fucking hurts_ and a part of him wishes _he_ had been the one with the knife, the one with no remorse, because he doesn’t think he can take _this_ anymore.

He feels bad again.

“Danny?” Dylan says.

He blinks away the sadness, looks up at Dylan. Dylan’s staring at him with a pinched brow and worried eyes. There are dark shadows imprinted beneath his eyes, and then the shame is overtaking Danny, because here he is worrying Dylan when Dylan _just_ had a traumatic experience, too. And a recent one at that. Danny, at least, has had three years to get over his.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “Sorry.”

“Eh, don’t apologize, dude,” Dylan says, still frowning. Jordon leans over Dylan’s shoulder, Jorel craning his neck to look around them both.

Everyone’s looking at Danny now. He squirms in his seat. “I’m okay,” he says again, biting his lip as he looks towards Asia. “Who -” He clears his throat. “Who do we need to find?”

George and Asia exchange a look.

“A little girl,” George says. “A little girl named Ava.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“So we gonna call ‘em?” Aron asks, looking down at the phone numbers scribbled under all their names. His skin is tight and twitchy, his nerves buzzing beneath, his throat tight, because he really isn’t sure anymore if he wants to see Jorel again. Not after -

Don’t think about it.

He clenches his jaw, blinking back tears. Jorel’s an asshole. Aron’s an asshole, too. They shouldn’t have been friends in the first place.

Oh god, that hurts. Why is he thinking about it? Stop thinking about it.

“Yeah, we’ll call them soon,” Matt says, snapping Aron from his painful thoughts. Matt tosses back a sip of beer, petting his dog Charlie as he stares out the window, a purely broody look on his face.

Truthfully, Matt wasn’t too surprised by the letter. Sunset is an odd little place, a fact that he knows well after spending his entire life there. He still remembers the Incident when he was ten, when he got lost in the woods and saw a strange girl peering at him from between the trees. 

It was only a matter of time until _something_ happened. He can feel the stirrings of the world around him, the way that even the fighter animals run scared from every little noise. 

Yes, he thinks something was _always_ going to happen.

He just wishes he knew what.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


Chelsea draws pink lipstick across her lips, smiling at herself in the mirror. Her eyelids are painted gentle pink, black eyeliner pencilled carefully around her eyes, her nails painted red. She looks good tonight. 

She caps the lipstick and sets it down on the counter, adjusting the bust of her black dress. She takes a moment to slip her lipstick into her purse, humming to herself as she does. 

As she lifts her head to look back into the mirror, a face peers over her shoulder.

Gasping, she whirls around. 

There’s nothing behind her but a note pinned to the wall. 

In scratchy letters, it reads _RUN._ There’s a heart scribbled beside it on the paper.

Chelsea takes off, her heels slamming against the floor as she does.

The walls crack open and swallow her whole.


	18. Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve heard of it,” Asia murmurs

Danny has to step out at that point, too overwhelmed by the information that there’s a _little kid_ involved in this.

He sits hard on the sidewalk, head spinning, and buries his face in his knees as he pulls them to his chest. There’s a little jingle as the coffee shop door opens and Jorel hesitantly shuffles out. 

Jorel slowly sits beside Danny, wincing at the tug in his stitches. He wraps his uninjured arm around his leg and stares up at the sky. It’s cool out today, the sun tucked behind the clouds, a chill settling over them. 

Jorel looks towards Danny. Danny’s spark is dull and faded. Jorel can barely feel it. His brow pinches.

“Are you okay?” he rasps. There’s a flash in his mind, of pink organs and red-black blood, and he hurriedly shuts it out.

Danny lifts his head. “Yeah,” he says, voice dull. “I’m okay.” He moves his glazed, distant eyes slowly to Jorel. “Are you?”

Jorel shrugs, mouth slipping into a frown. “Lot’s happened, I guess,” he mutters. A passing dog barks at them and he flinches. He can almost feel teeth breaking his skin.

Danny notices his flinch. He frowns. “Are you scared of dogs?”

“No!” Jorel snaps, and then immediately grimaces. _Reel it back._ “No, just - one bit me.”

Danny blinks. His eyes fall to Jorel’s arm. “It wasn’t that, was it?” he murmurs. 

“...It might have been.” Jorel crosses his arms.

Danny sits up straight, eyes round and worried. “Oh, my - my dog, I brought him around you.”

Jorel hurries to reassure him. “No, no, that’s fine, he - hasn’t done much.” Much.

“He will,” Danny says. “Eventually.”

Jorel swallows. Remembers the panic he felt when he saw a vicious bulldog tearing across the street towards him. “I, uh - _was_ a little freaked out when he attacked the jacket.”

Danny winces, eyes going wide and sad. “Shit, I’m _so_ sorry about that, I -”

“Not your fault,” Jorel says. “Really.” He swallows again, wanting to say more. Just say it. “...Besides, we got to add you to our dumbass group, so. Bonus.”

Danny blinks, looking a little taken aback by that. His lips curl up into a weak, hesitant smile. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, I’m… I’m glad it worked out that way.” He bites his lip. He looks away, towards the sky. “...What do you think’s gonna happen?”

Jorel sighs. “I… don’t know.” 

They sit together in silence.

Jorel releases his leg and presses his palm to the sidewalk. His eyes fall on a crack in the cement. 

From it, a green bud sprouts. He can feel it thrumming with new life.

It reaches for him. He pulls his hand away.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


There’s a certain kind of panic, where your chest goes numb and you can’t feel your body at all. Dylan’s only felt it a few times in his life: when he had a breakdown and his magic got out of control and he could hear his sister screaming, when he poured alcohol on his bloody hands because he hit the wall too hard out of hurt, when his mother had screamed at him to get out and he’d screamed back at her to forget him.

And, of course, right now. Hearing that a _kid_ is in this mess. Anyone reasonable would panic at that, wouldn’t they? Anyone who cares about a kid’s safety would. At least, he thinks so.

Point being, Dylan can’t feel his body. He can barely even hear. All he can think about is his sister’s ruined face, the glaze in his mother’s eyes as she forgot him, the white-hot pain of holding his hand to his own face and melting the skin beneath. The kid.

“Dilly?” Dylan turns his foggy eyes onto Jordon, whose own face is pinched and concerned. “You okay, dude?” Dylan looks away.

His mother would be so disappointed.

“Dude?”

“Aw, shit,” George rasps, “is _he_ having a panic attack now?” Reese steps away, looking towards the front of the shop.

“Just help him!” Asia snaps. Reese heads for the door.

George takes a deep breath, the shadows beneath his eyes only becoming more pronounced. “Dylan,” he says gently, taking hold of Dylan’s trembling hand. “Brea -”

“I’m not breathing with you!” Dylan chokes out, looking at George with wide, wet eyes. “This - this is a _kid,_ man,” he whispers. Jordon looks at his own feet, his face sad.

George sighs. “I know, Dylan. Believe me, believe me… I know.”

“I don’t wanna be a part of this anymore,” Dylan whispers, shaking his head. “I wanna get back to my life.”

“I don’t either,” George murmurs. “But we have no choice anymore.”

“My life was already ruined,” Dylan says with a hysterical laugh, shaking his head harder. Jordon turns back to him with worried eyes. “I didn’t need this.”

“Yeah,” George says. He looks so tired. “Neither did I.”

Dylan swallows, a tear trailing down his cheek. His lips are numb. “I destroyed my sister’s face,” he whispers. George blinks. Jordon’s brow pinches. Asia cocks her head. “With this fucking magic bullshit. I don’t want any more.”

“I’m sorry,” George says. “I didn’t mean -”

“Doesn’t matter what you meant,” Dylan mutters, trying to remind himself of the trust he’s had in George. “We’re all fucked anyway.”

They stand in silence.

Dylan sticks his hand into his pocket, seeking out the comfort of the shard, trying to ignore the way his veins buzz when he touches it. It feels right, even if it doesn’t at the same time.

Jordon bites his lip, thinks of an artifact that he’s one of few people to know about. But if it has the powers he’s been told, it might not even help. No, he shouldn’t bring it up. There’s no point.

“Jordon.” Jordon lifts his eyes to look at Randi, who looks back at him with gentle eyes. He’s not sure when she came out. George’s eyes trail towards her. “Jordon. Tell them.” 

Jordon swallows. He looks towards the others. 

“Tell them,” Randi says again.

Jordon takes a deep breath. “We might not be fucked,” he murmurs, and looks away. “I know something that might help.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“Are you okay?”

Jorel looks over his shoulder. Reese is standing at the entrance of the coffee shop, letting the door fall shut behind her as she looks between him and Danny.

Jorel looks to Danny. Danny’s staring blankly at the pavement, his eyes unfocused and distant. He doesn’t seem to realize that Reese said anything. “Danny?” Jorel asks, raising his voice slightly.

Danny flinches, his eyes flying to Jorel and then to Reese. “Oh,” he murmurs, blinking hard. “Reese. Hi.”

Reese offers him a gentle smile. “Hi,” she murmurs. She looks back at Jorel with kind eyes. “You didn’t answer.”

Jorel blinks. “Me?” She arches a brow, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Oh, uh…” He coughs and rubs his hands on his tattered jeans. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Reese looks towards Danny. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Just… thinking.”

She takes a few steps forward, slowly lowering herself to sit on the sidewalk between them. She looks up at the sky, the wind brushing against her hair. “It’s okay to not be okay,” she says softly, but neither of them knows who she’s talking to. Maybe both. “I think you’ve all been through a lot.”

Jorel swallows and looks away. Remembers slick, bloody intestine and Aron’s beaming face. Maybe he has been through a lot. 

“I guess we have,” Danny murmurs, looking at her with sad eyes.

She looks at her hands, clasped in her lap. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Danny.” She lifts her eyes to look at Jorel. He blinks back at her. “And you, Decker… you deserve protection, too.”

He frowns, eyes falling back to the pavement. He doesn’t, not really. There aren’t a lot of good things he deserves. 

_Oh, fuck you, Jorel! You ruin everything!_

His heart aches.

“I’ll do my best to help you all,” Reese says, looking back towards the sky, unaware of Jorel’s internal fall. Danny frowns at him. 

Reese gets to her feet, heels clicking on the pavement. “Here,” she says, withdrawing a business card from her pocket and leaning down to pass it to Danny. She smiles when he meets her eyes. “I have a shift in a little bit, but you can call me anytime you need.”

“Thank you,” Danny murmurs as he takes the card from her. “You’re very kind.”

“That’s my job,” she says. “Take care of yourself, okay? I’m here whenever you guys need.”

“Thank you, Reese.”

With a final, soft smile, she leaves.

Danny looks at Jorel, whose face is turned to the ground, his own eyes distant. “Jorel? Are you okay?”

Jorel nods sharply, because he still doesn’t know Danny well enough to say _No, actually, I fucking hate myself._ “I’m fine.”

Danny opens his mouth to speak again. The door of the coffee shop swings open. “Danny, Jorel,” George says gruffly. “Jordon has something to tell us. Get in here.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


The good thing about being a paranoid conspiracist (no matter how much he denies that he is one) is that Jeff has learned over time how best to dig up information on people. Basically, it isn’t hard to find one of Jordon’s other contacts: a rich girl named Aubrey. The one who told Jordon the supposed “location” of the talisman. Jeff pins her address down fast.

The main problem comes when he arrives at her big metal gate and the first thing she says through the intercom when he presses the button is, _“Go the fuck away!”_

He takes a deep breath. “L -”

_“You fucking heard me, Jordon! Go away!”_

Jeff sighs. “I’m _not_ Jordon!”

 _“Even worse! Go the fuck away!”_ The intercom clicks off.

Jeff looks at the mechanism of the gate. He sighs and rolls his eyes. He hates this magic shit.

He presses his hand to the gate, his veins buzzing. The gears shift, squealing and scraping as he manipulates the gate open with a metallic screech.

Sometimes the magic shit is necessary.

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“So,” George says as Danny and Jorel settle back into their seats. “What were you saying might help?”

All eyes turn to Jordon.

Jordon’s tongue flits across his bottom lip as he struggles not to glance at Randi. “So, uh…” He clears his throat. “It’s called the Talisman of Tragedy.” Asia shifts, her brow pinching. “I guess you could say it… creates things.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Asia murmurs. Jordon blinks at her. “Doesn’t it bring people back from the dead?”

“The fuck?” Dylan’s head whips to Jordon. His voice is still hoarse, skin still pale from the panic, but he looks slightly better.

Jordon waves his hand dismissively. “That’s… the main reason people go after it, yeah.” There’s an odd distance in his eyes. “But that’s not the only thing it does. It creates things. Like… tulpas, I guess. Not exactly, but…” He stares at the floor, brow pinched in thought. He doesn’t continue.

George frowns, biting his lip. “...How could that help us?”

Asia turns to him with an intent look in her eyes. “Why don’t we find out?”

“I’m sorry,” Dylan says, “is anyone but me still hung up over the part where you said _bringing people back from the dead?”_

Asia and George smirk at each other. “Stranger things have happened,” George reasons. Dylan gapes at him. Jorel and Danny exchange a look.

“Come on,” Asia says, stepping towards Jordon. “Take us back to your house. We’ll strategize there.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  


“No one’s answering,” Matt mutters, pulling the phone away from his face. He’s tried all their numbers, and still no response. 

“Well, try again,” Aron says.

Matt shakes his head. “Let’s just… drive down there.”

“Down… where?”

“To their houses,” Matt says. “Drive down to their houses. In a minute here.”

Aron stares at him. _What_ is Matt thinking? “Well, uh… I can’t.”

Matt blinks. “Okay. Why?”

Aron searches for some excuse. He’s not ready to see Jorel. Oh _fuck_ he’s not ready to see him. “I’ve got a date to keep,” he says hurriedly. “With Yuma.”

Matt arches a brow. “You’re dating Yuma?”

Aron sputters. “That’s - that is _not_ what I meant!”

Matt laughs. “I know,” he rasps. “I’m messing with you.”

“Right. Well. Good luck with your trip, man.” 

Matt nods as Aron leaves, turning his attention back to the letter.   
  
He hopes this is worth it.

Around him, the world shifts.


End file.
